The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep
by Wysawyg
Summary: Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multichapter. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The woods are lovely, dark and deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings:** Not a humour fic. It will start off light, it will get very very dark. Expect multiple character deaths.

It is not a WIP. It has been entirely written and Beta'd. Posting speed will depend on the cliffhanger and how busy I am that week to edit up that chapter.

I started writing this story in early March this year. Any foreshadowing of recent episode events is entirely coincidental and somewhat amusing.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance.

**Chapter one**

The night the first dream came; Sam had thought he was prepared.

He had known about the dreams. Known from Max. Known from Andy's freakish twin brother. Known from the kid that Gordon killed, the one who'd had yellow eyes plastered on the inside of his wardrobe.

Frankly, Sam had begun to wonder what was taking so long. Did the demon think so little of him that it would kill his mother, kill his father, play mind-games with his brother but leave him alone? Sam should have known that the demon was just playing a long game with the youngest Winchester.

The first dream came disguised as a vision. Maybe if Sam had noticed the man standing in the back watching with yellow eyes then what followed might never have happened. But Sam's gaze was fixed upon the writhing form of his older brother, at the desperate twist of his screaming face as flames licked around him, at the blonde-haired beautiful girl that stood impassionate above Dean, watching him die.

Sam awoke sweating from remembered heat and scrambled out of the blankets that tried to snarl his feet, moving across to his brother's bed. Dean slumbered peacefully, unaware of his surroundings with his mouth wide open and soft sleep snorts coming out. Sam couldn't resist reaching a hand out to touch his brother and assure himself that Dean really was lying there.

Dean awoke with a snort and eyes darting around to try and locate what had pulled him from his dream, which likely involved two supermodels and an inordinate amount of chocolate sauce. "Sammy?" He asked, dazed, "What are you doing?"

Maybe if Sammy had answered truthfully in that moment then Dean could have kept his promise, could have saved his brother but he held his tongue, not wanting to burden his brother with another vision. "Nothing."

Dean peered blearily at the LED display of the clock, "Well, nothing somewhere else. It's four in the morning and some of us weren't tucked in bed with their teddies by nine." Dean flipped himself over to face away from Sam and with a couple of snorts, he was fast asleep once more.

Sam retreated to his bed and sat against the headrest, pulling his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them as he attempted to banish the images of the vision that lingered in his mind. The worst was the lack of context. The room had looked ordinary, no notable furniture, no time frame, just a girl and Dean and death.

Sam let his head droop until his chin rested on his knees and hugged his knees tighter to himself, trying to block out the chill that ran down his spine. It was in that same position that he fell asleep.

"Rise and shine, campers." Dean's boisterous voice pulled Sam out of his dreams which had been shadowy and malevolent, dark figures hovering at the edge of sight. "It's a beautiful day," Dean continued, obviously in his stride. "The sun is shining, the birds are singing and we have a choice of not one, but two different hunts."

Sam unclenched his hands from where they were still wrapped around his knees and arched backwards, feeling the click of his spine re-aligning itself after the awkward spot to sleep. He sniffed the air, checking for the tell-tale scent of coffee before he slipped sideways onto bare feet, padding bleary-eyed towards the smell.

He had barely had time to fill himself a mug and take a sip of the bitter liquid before Dean was continuing his cheerful monologue. "Come on, what'll it be? Behind door number one, we have Saragon, Colorado and a suspected werewolf. Suspected because so far it has been chewing but not swallowing. Three victims, all of which are potential werewolves. Behind door number two, we have East Smidgeley in Tennessee and a coven who are getting to know the town in the biblical sense. And by biblical, I mean old testament, lots of smiting and vengeance and not a smidgeon of forgiveness. Think 'The Craft' if they were all women in their mid-forties and a lot nastier. Come on, Contestant number one, what'll it be?"

Sam was fairly sure that coffee hadn't been on the list of options but that was certainly Sam's favoured option as he started to glug the cooling liquid in the hope that the caffeine buzz would offset his brother's insane morning perkiness. It wasn't doing too great a job at that moment. "Sounds like four werewolves are more serious than a few witches with serious PMS."

"It's alive!" Dean crowed, tucking into his own mug of coffee with a voracious gulp. "The witches have killed two people so far including a teenage mother; one of the group is very touchy about her infertility; as well as a young mechanic foolish enough to shun one of the coven's attentions. Not to mention the non-lethal stuff that they've been doing to people."

"So then the coven is more important." Sam was fairly sure that Dean knew exactly which job he was going to take and was just going to taunt his brother until Sam was forced to make the same decision as he'd already got.

"Possibly but then it could be that the werewolves are just waiting until there are enough of them and then they'll go on a killing spree," Dean said, slurping the coffee in what Sam felt was a deliberately loud manner.

"Then the werewolves," Sam said in a tired manner.

"But then…" Dean started.

"Oh for crying out loud, just pick a damn hunt and let me know. I'm going in the shower." Sam stormed through to the bathroom, his moody attempt to storm off slightly destroyed when he tripped over one of Dean's shoes. Sam bent to pick up the shoe and lobbed it at his brother's head before slamming the bathroom door.

Sam twisted the shower knob onto full and stepped in, ignoring the fact that the water was icy cold. The frozen needles stabbed through the last dregs of sleep but did very little to remove the traces of horror from the vision. The thoughts running through Sam's mind was which of the two hunts was least likely to lead to the vision. On the one hand, the coven appeared to be too old for the twenty-something he'd seen. On the other hand, the werewolves likely wouldn't need to resort to setting people on fire.

Sam raked fingers back through his damp hair and squeezed shampoo into his hand, rubbing it into his hair. It was worth keeping long hair, just to keep the extra ten minutes that washing it earned him over Dean in the shower. Back in Stanford, Sam had tended to use Jessica's floral-scented shampoo and conditioner, liking to walk around the rest of the day smelling like her. Now he used whatever cheap stuff Dean bought from the dime store. This month was mint-scented though Dean protested that it made him smell like an after-eight.

The water was quickly heading from tepid back down to freezing cold by the time Sam stepped out of the shower. He scrubbed a towel through his hair, rubbing away most of the dripping water before wrapping it around his waist and tucking the ends in. He walked over to the bed, ignoring the voice of his brother as he pulled on his boxers, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

"Hello, Earth to Sammy?" Dean called, walking over to his brother and tapping his wet head, "Anything in there?"

Sam batted the hand away, "Go away, Dean." Sam grabbed a comb and raked it back through his hair, tugging it viciously through the snarls and ignoring the pain. "So which hunt are we going on?"

Apparently Dean realised that he had reached Sam's breaking point as he just said, "The witches. We'll leave in a couple of hours. I'll drive first. Just made a fresh pot." He nodded to the full cafetierre, one of the fancier accoutrements to this motel room.

Sam poured himself a fresh cup and tipped it down his throat, not caring that it had barely cooled enough for the flavour to come through. Once the mug was empty, he poured again, hoping that he could banish the horrors with enough caffeine. "Fine. Sounds good to me."

"I'm going out to the store. Anything you want?" Dean asked.

"Aspirin," Sam said, knowing he had used up the last of it the night before.

"Back in ten," Dean said and headed out the door.

* * *

It took a full day to drive from their most recent stop over to East Smidgeley. Sam had managed to get some sleep on the journey and thankfully the visions had stayed away but the lingering unease had remained. Every time Sam awoke, he would instinctively check on Dean to make sure his brother was still there and from the irritated glances Dean was sending back, he had noticed. 

In the end, Dean had let Sam do more of the driving, Sam suspected solely so that Dean could get some shut-eye and not keep seeing his brother looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Even so, Sam suspected the reason his brother was wearing shades was so that Sam couldn't tell if he was really asleep.

As the early light of dawn casts an eerie red glow into the morning sky, Sam passed the 'Welcome to East Smidgeley' sign and started the habitual scan for a cheap looking motel. It's not long before gaudy neon signs violated the morning light and Sam peeled the car into the parking lot. He knew Dean would be annoyed at Sam waking him just to check in but neither is Sam willing to let his brother out of his sight, "Dean!" He hissed, prodding his brother.

"Wuh? Hhhh. Leave the cabbages," Dean mumbled as the remnants of whatever bizarre dream concocted in his mind faded away. "Sam? We're here? Fine, what room?"

"Haven't checked in yet," Sam said it fast as if that made it somehow more acceptable, "I wasn't sure which credit card to use."

Dean gave his brother a disbelieving look. Forgetting which credit card is valid was somehow akin to forgetting to put on trousers in the morning and Dean's eyes briefly dip to make sure his brother hadn't forgotten that too. "The Amex, made out to Jeffrey Cazabyzan," He said, leaning back against the seat. "Wake me again when you are done."

"Dean!" Sam prodded again. "You may as well come in now. Going to give up your chance to flirt with the motel girl?"

Dean lazily lifted one eye, "I'll have plenty of time to meet with her later. Maybe I can apologise for my doofus of a little brother." The eye shut again and opened moments later. "Sam, shoo."

Finally Sam knew he could come up with no convincing argument so he stepped out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary and smirking internally as his brother jerked up and grumbled.

He stepped into the motel office, ducking his head to avoid the low doorway. "Good morning, sir. How can I help you?" A voice greeted him, feminine but tempered by a southern lilt. Sam looked up, straight into the eyes of the girl from his vision. He took a step backwards, a visceral part of himself leaping up and screaming to get this thing before it could hurt Dean, quickly tempered by common sense.

"No, sorry." Sam almost stumbled backwards. "I thought… but no." He ducked and headed out of the doorway as fast as his feet could carry him.

"Finally," Dean chorused when Sam lowered himself back into the driver's seat, "So, what's the room number?"

"We're not staying here," Sam said bluntly and closed his hand around the keys in the ignition, twisting.

"What?!" Dean's hand stilled on his, holding the keys in place. "Why not? Did the nasty motel girl try to touch you in the bad place?"

"I just have a bad feeling," Sam answered.

"Bad feeling I just had a vision or bad feeling I ate bad macaroni cheese last night?"

"Just a bad feeling. Come on, let's find another motel."

"Nuh-huh. You know how it goes little brother. Face your fears including scary motel girls." Dean frowned, noting the shade of pale his brother's skin was, "Fine. I'll go get us a room."

Dean didn't even have time to close his hand around the door handle before Sam's hand fisted in his shirt tugging him backwards, "No, I'll…I'll do it. Just stay in the car."

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean said, looking like he was adding two and two together and coming up with seven thousand and ninety two repeatedly. "First you want me to come with you like some human safety blanket and now you practically tear my favourite shirt to stop me going. What's going on in that freakish brain of yours?"

"Nothing, Dean, just facing my fears like you said." Sam unfolded himself from the car before his brother could ask any more questions and walked slowly backwards the motel office.

The girl looked up warily as Sam walked back in and he could see one hand hidden beneath the desk where it was likely a panic button resided. That left Sam oddly comforted. If she was some pyromaniac demon-spawn, it was unlikely she would have to resort to a panic button. "Hello again." Her tone was more clipped this time.

"Erm, hi." Sam said, giving her his best lost little puppy smile, "Forgot my wallet. Can I get a double room?"

There was a plastered nervous smile on the girl's face as she leafed one handed through the reservations book in front of her. "Of course. What name would that be under?" The odd phrasing making it sound like she knew it wouldn't be Sam's true name which put him back on edge.

"Cazabyzan." Sam almost slurred the word, the syllables leap-frogging over each other.

The girl blinked, "Can you spell that?"

Sam briefly wondered what she'd do if he said no. Thankfully years of looking through tomes of demonology, where various sects had apparently had a competition for who could get the most Zs, Ks and Xs into their name, had prepared him well and he spelt it out without too much difficulty.

The girl scribbled the name down. "Rates are fifty bucks a night, cleaner comes around every second day, check-out is expected at ten a.m. on the day you leave. Any questions?"

Sam shook his head and took the key, every instinct telling him to just turn away and run from this girl. Instead he forced a regular pace away, only remembering to breathe once he cleared the doorway. He had to check the key fob to find out what room they were in.

Dean was watching him, a tilt of amusement to the set of his mouth. "Did you face the scary motel girl?"

Sam flicked the key at his brother. "Room two-oh-four. Round the back." Sam slid the car into gear, pulling away from the office and round the first l-shaped protrusion before pulling in at the door.

Dean practically leapt from the car as soon as Sam switched off the ignition, pulling his duffel out of the back and heading towards the mock-cedar door with tarnished brass numbers. Sam was only footsteps behind, his heart jumping in his throat as he hoped the room they were about to enter wasn't the same one as from his vision.

As it turned out, it was just one from his nightmares. Whoever had decorated the room must have been colour-blind, there was no other way to justify the lurid pink and lime green that squiggled down the wall. That might almost have been redeemed if not for the neon orange carpet. All the furniture was pristine white plastic and Sam felt a headache brimming just from the sight of the place. Dean took one look, hmphed and slipped his shades on. "Last time I let you pick the motel." He bounced onto the nearest bed to the door. "Bagsies."

Sam walked over to the other bed, trying to pretend the cover wasn't leopard print. If there was ever a time for mind over matter to work, it was now. Sadly when Sam re-opened his eyes, the bedspread was still leopard print. He glanced to Dean who had rolled off the bed and was now tugging his tiger print spread off the bed and looking like he might start off this hunt by salting and burning it. "I offered to switch motels."

"I didn't know that your psychic senses had expanded to really bad furnishings," Dean complained, "Though I swear there must be something demonic here. Have you ever come across a possessed interior decorator? Supernaturally bad taste?"

"Maybe a colour blind one?" Sam said.

"Because colour blind decorators are far more likely than demonic ones." Dean curved one eyebrow upwards. "So how about we try to find some place around here that can serve a plate of breakfast without making your eyes bleed for it?"

"I'm not really hungry," Sam stated though that was an understatement. His stomach felt like it had wrapped itself into a knot in his belly, squeezing so tight that there was no room for any food.

"You sulking at me, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"No, I'm just not hungry."

"Fine. I'm going to head out to the diner. If I'm feeling like a wonderful, kind, amazing brother like I am then I might bring you something back."

"I told you, I'm not damn hungry."

"Fine, Maybe I'll just go and flirt with that motel girl."

"On second thoughts, maybe I could eat something," Sam said, ignoring the nausea that uncoiled within him, even as he thought about it.

"Seriously Sammy, as soon as I'm awake enough to give a damn then we are going to talk about this," Dean protested, unpeeling himself from the bed and retrieving the boots he'd kicked across the room.

Sam swore to himself that he was fine, that there was nothing wrong. But as the brothers left the room of clashing colours and into the Impala, Dean in the driver's seat this time, Sam can't help to glance to the motel window and for a moment, he could swear the girl was watching.

* * *

The diner the brothers found was at least in slightly better decorative taste than the motel. The walls were white-washed and hung with paraphernalia from the seventies and eighties, including a guitar with a scrawl vaguely resembling Eddie Van Halen across it. Sam didn't believe it was real for a moment. 

The waitress in the diner was exactly Dean's type and he gave her a lascivious stare before the glass door had even finished swinging shut. She sidled up, protruding her breasts in a pretence of putting her nametag on display. "Hey sugars, Just the two of you?"

"Unless we find better company," Dean replied with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Sam assumed Dean was trying to be suave. Personally Sam thought his brother just sounded like he'd seen far too many James Bond movies.

The waitress seemed to lap it up as she motioned the brothers over to a table. "Here, you'll get yourselves a good view. Now, what can I get to drink?"

"Coffee, black," Dean said, grinning at the waitress who giggled as if Dean just make some kind of fantastic joke. Sam was sick of this already.

"Make that two." Sam gripped the menu, wrinkling his nose at the sticky patches. The menu read like a doctor's guide on how to have a heart attack and Sam saw Dean's face light up with glee. Sam's stomach still clenched in on itself so when the waitress returned, bending over far more than necessary to put down Dean's coffee, he just ordered the light bite breakfast. Dean ordered the early bird special which probably had more cholesterol in it than the average daily output of a liposuction clinic.

"What's with the light bite?" Dean quizzed, twirling a spoon around his coffee, more because he enjoyed the ringing, clanging against the side of the mug rather than the need to mix in anything.

"Told you I wasn't feeling that hungry," Sam answered.

"Uh-huh." Dean put the spoon down on the table and peered intently at his brother seating opposite him. "So, when are you planning on telling me what's going on?" Before Sam had a chance to answer, Dean started listing off his fingers. "I wake up a couple of nights ago to find you hovering over my bed. Every time you fall asleep in the car, you wake up and stare at me. You practically freaked out when you had to go book a motel room on your own. You did freak out over some motel chick. You then proceeded to freak out about me seeing some motel chick, twice." Dean ran out of fingers and glanced to his other hand before deciding to leave it there. "So?"

"I just have a bad feeling about this," was as much as Sam would admit.

"Damn, knew I should never have let you watch Star Wars," Dean muttered and then grinned up at the waitress as she brought over their plates.

Sam looked down at the plate in front of him. Apparently their idea of a light bite was a meal slightly less likely to give you a heart attack immediately after consumption. He already knew where Dean would drag them to eat every day during this job and not just for the dubious attraction of Brandi the waitress. Sam dug his fork in, slicing into the egg which looked the least grease coated thing on the plate.

Dean was re-enacting the battle of the Somme on his plate. Tomatoes were hapless casualties, strewn in red splashes of gore to the side of the plate while sausages and bacons were sliced and chewed faster than it should be possible. Eggs were sliced open and were now leaking yellow ichor over the rest of the plate, mixing with the splodges of ketchup to create watery-red pools. The mushrooms were piled like burnt corpses and the pancakes were ripped and torn, draped like human flesh in the red pools.

If Sam hadn't been feeling sick before, he certainly was now. He excused himself hastily from his mostly untouched breakfast and beat a path towards the bathroom where he retched the food he had managed to keep down for the past twenty four hours into the certainly unsanitary basin. Thankfully the bathroom was empty apart from him so Sam could just lean back against the stall door and let the post-puke quakes shudder through his body.

When Sam was sure there was nothing else down to come back up, he staggered up to unsteady feet and made his way to the basin, splashing water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, his eyes were red-rimmed from the combined effort of bad sleep and the strain of being sick. Sam tugged his bangs to drape mostly over his face, disguising himself a little from prying eyes. Finally he straightened and made his way back out of the bathroom.

Thankfully the massacre of Dean's plate had finished and Sam was fairly sure his plate was short a few items that it hadn't been when he had left for the bathroom. Sam slid back into his seat and took a gulp of the luke-warm coffee, making a token effort to continue with his breakfast.

"You are fine, eh?" Dean asked, affecting a casual air as he sipped at his own coffee.

"Yeah, think I ate something that disagreed with me. I've been feeling a bit off-colour." Sam was shocked he hadn't thought about it sooner. Dean could be a complete busy-body when it came to physical injuries but when it came to sickness, anything milder than life-threatening was just another excuse for mockery and mockery didn't equate concern.

"Awww, ickle Sammy got an ouchie," Dean snickered. "Well, while you were busy chatting up the toilet, I got some very interesting words out of Brandi."

"If you are about to discuss your sex life, please let me know so I can go back to the bathroom."

"Not now, Sammy. Jerking off in a diner is just not sanitary, at least wait 'til you are back at the motel."

Sam glared at his brother so fiercely that he felt Dean should burst into flames from the intensity of it, but then the vision struck the back of Sam's mind again and it was only the sheer force of willpower that stopped him from dashing back into the bathroom. "What did she say?" He dragged the words out in an attempt to get the conversation back on track.

"Well, you know that little motel girl that got you all stressed out?" Dean said, eyes darting a little to make sure no-one was listening in. "Guess who she is?"

Sam really hated guessing games. Usually because they meant Dean looking smug for about half an hour until he revealed something Sam would never have guessed in a million years. "Madonna's younger sister?"

"Way off," Dean smirked before apparently deciding this little piece of juicy information couldn't wait. "She's the coven high priestess' adored only child."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** The woods are lovely, dark and deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester had begun to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Author's notes**: Many thanks again to my awesome beta TraSan who corals my meandering tenses.

**Chapter two**

"So what's the game plan?" Dean asked as soon as they had finished searching the motel room for any physical bugs and using the EMF to try and pick up any spiritual ones. "Watch the girl and see what she does?"

Sam's personal plan was to keep his brother as far away from the girl as possible without locking him in the trunk of the Impala and driving out of there - that was the back-up plan. "I don't know how much good that will do. It seems like finding out who the members of the coven are is gonna be easy enough. That waitress told you the high priestess after just ten minutes of knowing you."

"Winchester charm," Dean said with the habitual lazy, cocky grin on his face. "Don't worry, Sammy, maybe one day you might grow into it."

"Anyway," Sam grouched, "The fact that no other hunter has finished this job means there's something more to it. I'm thinking some kind of high level protection."

"Deals with a demon? Tisk, they never learn." Dean shook his head, "We'll need to find and destroy whatever empowered artefact the demon gave the coven. Otherwise it'll bind the demon here and the exorcism will bounce right off."

"By the sounds of it, these witches aren't hiding their power but flaunting it. Hopefully they'll be doing something similar with the artefact."

"So drive around later and look for signs stating, 'Demonic artefact here' then?" Dean joked.

"Not quite that flaunting it. I'm thinking we need to work out what demon it is so that we'll have a better idea of what sort of relic to look for." Sam cocked his head, frowning. "There's something else here. Old power, strong."

"Man, it's not enough you get full-colour visions but you are now picking up long-wave crazy too?"

"It's not like that. It's just a constant, irritating hum in the back of my head." Sam struggled to put it into words.

"Dude, if that's a complaint about my musical skills then forget it! Just because you can't sing to save your life."

"I can sing." Jessica had said he had a lovely voice.

"I have a whole karaoke bar who would protest otherwise," Dean smirked then kept talking before Sam could retort, "So what type of old magic are we talking about? Freaky, wrinkly voodoo priestess? Past her prime pow-wow princess?"

"It's a hum, not a soundtrack. I can't tell." Sam hated how Dean would flip between belittling his psychic weirdness and then expecting it to give him all the answers. "However if it is old, there's one good place to look." At Dean's expectant eyebrow, Sam said, "The old people's home."

"Urgh, hate those places," Dean shuddered. "Old people smell and a bunch of people too frail to take care of themselves. Old people's homes are what hell looks like at a glance."

"Ideal place to hide from a coven though. Enough lingering traces from plenty of peaceful and not-so-peaceful deaths to mask the magic."

"Fine. What's the local dumping ground for the aged called?"

Sam scowled. "Golden fields retirement home," Sam answered, remembering the leaflet he'd seen in the motel office.

Dean wrinkled his nose, "Why do they always have to give them poetic names? It's not like it's going to feel so much better for your family to drop you off when you get too much bother because it's got a pretty name."

"Could you just promise not to punch any of the staff?" Sam pleaded with his brother, hoping to knock him off course.

"Of course," Dean looked at his brother like he was an idiot, "It's not the staff's fault. Hell, most of them try to make the best of it. Not their fault the poor old biddies in there got stuck with relatives who don't give a shit."

"Could you promise not to punch any of the relatives?" Sam added.

"I promise not to punch any of the relatives," Dean said all too quickly before adding, with a characteristic smirk, "Hard."

Sam sighed, "I figure we should go in claiming to be students investigating local folklore. Just quiz a few of the old folks that are amenable and see what we find out."

* * *

Hunting had taken Dean to old people's homes far too often for his liking. Often the people who had been victims of the creatures they hunted would find themselves in one decades later, their minds finally catching up with their inability to cope with what they'd seen. Dean never understood how Sam could be so calm in them. Every old person Dean passed he wondered, 'Is that me?' Forty years down the road, would he be the one sitting by the window staring aimlessly out at the clouds? His father was dead, his brother would have his own apple-pie life and Dean couldn't imagine a future for himself with a wife and children. He considered it somewhat fortunate that most paths Dean could see for himself ended in early death.

Sam and he had split off once they'd bluffed their way past the home's administration. Sam had been ambushed by a couple of old ladies, obviously reminding them of some grandson who never visited. From what he could hear though, their information was less about old sources of power and more about old sauces for pasta, not to mention Sam's life and whether he had himself a nice girl.

Dean wasn't sure what appealed to him about the old lady sitting by the window. Perhaps it was the way she held herself slightly aloof from her surroundings, aware that she didn't truly belong there and she wasn't willing to give in yet. Her white hair was still long and braided in two long plaits. He could see a red-brown tinge to her leathery skin that hinted towards First Nation's ancestry, "Ma'am?"

Sharp dark eyes looked up to meet Dean's and she studied him before motioned to a seat, "Please, just call me Amelia."

"Amelia," Dean sat, resting his elbows on his knees to pay full attention to her, "I'm Dean. I'm doing a project on local folklore and I was wondering what you knew."

"You after the witches?" Amelia said, grinning at Dean's surprised look. "I may be senile according to the doctors but I'll be ten years a pile of dust before I don't recognise a hunter's gait. Your friend there has it too though not quite as pronounced as yours. New to the game?"

"Old to the game, new-ish to the return," Dean replied. "You were a hunter?"

Amelia laughed, light and silvery like bells in a breeze, "Don't be daft. Don't need to be a hunter to see what's out there. I been around hunters a lot, helped out on occasion."

"What do you know about the witches then?" Dean asked.

"They're trouble," Amelia said, shaking her head, "Found themselves a taproot of power and got no sense to handle it right. They toss it around like it is just feathers. Ten, twenty years from now, this place will be a dried-up husk. Got themselves some help too: something which wants the power they found and is smart enough to use them to get it. You boys got any charms against that?"

Dean tapped the charm Bobby had given him which was permanently secured on the belt loop he was wearing, "This stops anything getting in." He tapped his necklace, "This helps too."

The woman nodded, looking pleased, "Bout time one of you hunters show a lick of common sense. Too much guns and salt, you forget the basics. How about your boy there?" She nodded to where Sam was picking up an increasing crowd of old women.

"He's got an anti-possession charm like me, nothing else though. Sam isn't great on… He'd rather hit the books and trust in Latin."

"Much like my older sister." At Dean's eyebrow raise, Amelia chuckled, "Yes, I do have family and they come visit me fairly often but not everyone can give up everything for family, boy. Sometimes the best thing you can do for family is realise you can't do everything for them."

"You like being in here?" Dean's eyes flicked around the room, taking in the people in various states of confusion or boredom.

"On my good days, not particularly. On my bad days, I don't much care. It evens out and the staff here do their best." Amelia smiled at a sunny faced woman who was making the rounds, checking on the old folks.

"Anything you can tell me which might help?" Dean tried to get the conversation back on track, feeling slightly awkward being challenged by somebody's grandma.

"The power they are tapping into, it's the power of the land and that belongs to nobody. You try to possess it and it'll work against you. Ask the spirits, give them tobacco and tell the truth then maybe those witches will find their power turning against them."

"Uh-huh. I'm not really an 'Ask the spirits' type, more a shoot the spirits full of rock salt 'til they go away," Dean admitted.

Amelia did not look amused, "Not everything in life is a joke to be made, boy. You take my advice." Amelia glanced out to the window, looking towards nothing Dean could see. When Dean didn't move, she swung her head back around, "You can go now."

Dean winced a little at her tone and shifted up to his feet, heading towards Sam and his increasing crowd of female admirers, "Hey, Sam boy, good to go?"

There was a chorus of disappointed aws and Sam sent such a desperate look towards his brother that Dean was tempted to just leave him there. "All the nice boys leave," One of the women whose still dark brown hair was an odds with the number of wrinkles on her face said, "They always go away."

Dean frowned at that, maybe Sam had managed to find out some useful information after all, "Sorry, I have to drag him away. It's a long drive back to campus and he needs to call his mother." The chorus of awws from the old women was worth it just for the red blush on Sam's face and the look which quite clearly said, 'I'm going to kill you.'

Sam kept a smile plastered on his face until they got back to the Impala when it turned to a scowl at Dean, "I hope you got something useful. All I got was three different pasta recipes, one story from each of them about how they met their husband and advice on how to get wine stains out of the carpet."

Dean slid into the driver's seat and slotted the keys into the ignition, waiting until his brother was situated in the passenger side before replying, "What about what the one lady said, about the nice ones always leaving?"

"I assumed that was just her rambling," Sam said, looking pensive. "You think there's something to it?"

"There was something in the way she said it, sounds like she was talking about now rather than her past." Dean thought it over, "Guess you get to play bait this time."

"That's a bit premature. Did you find out anything useful?"

"Sort of. Apparently the old power in this place is First Nation's or rather that of their lands. She reckons if we ask nicely and let it bum a cig then it'll turn the big off switch on the witches' mojo."

"We'd still have whatever the demon gave them to contend against but it's worth a try. I've got a book on Native American stuff. Should help us not piss off the spirits too badly."

"We still need to find where the witches practice so we can get at whatever the demon gave them. Which means you," Dean spared a hand from the steering wheel to poke his brother in the arm, "Get to be bait."

"Why me?" Sam grouched.

"Because I hardly fit the definition of a nice boy," Dean smirked. "Come on. All you have to do is wander around on your own, help a few kittens out of trees, a few old ladies across the road, visit some sick children in the hospital, just a typical day for you when I'm not around. Then when Glinda and co grab you, I'll trail them, do the whole 'oi spirits' thing and hey presto, coven ain't bugging no-one no more."

Sam shook his head, "Being glib about a plan doesn't actually make it more likely to go right."

"I'm not being glib," Dean defended himself. "I'm being cocky. Big difference. Being cocky means I have years of experience of pulling little brother's ass out of trouble to back me up."

Sam just rolled his eyes and leaned on the window, trying his best to ignore his brother. "Let's just get back to the motel and then we can see if the Native American thing will be possible."

"Fine," Dean said, disappointed when he couldn't get his brother to rise to the bait. So instead, he just cranked up the volume on the radio and finished the journey to the motel.

* * *

Sam remembered the old adage: it takes forty three muscles to frown and only seventeen muscles to smile, so smile and save your energy. Dean always added that it only took four muscles to extend your arm and punch the person. Either way, Sam was feeling all seventeen of those supposed muscles as he walked around the town, keeping the grin plastered on his face and being polite and nice to everyone.

He wanted to glance back and make sure that Dean was close by but he knew he wouldn't be able to spot Dean. They had several pre-arranged signals for needing to talk to each other or calling a halt to the whole thing but Sam suspected using one just because of a bad feeling in his gut was unlikely to bring anything but mockery and irritation from the older man.

Researching the Native American thing hadn't taken long but both brothers had agreed that leaving it to the last minute was the best idea, just in case the witches figured out what was going on and tried to call their demon for back-up. Researching the demon had been less fruitful. There were several suspects, the kind of demon that liked manipulating others to get power, but nothing that would identify exactly which one it was likely to be or to give the boys a hint towards what the power object might be.

All that left Sam wandering around town for two hours so far, waiting to be snatched by the satanic section of the WI. So far there hadn't been so much as a speculative look from any of the women and Sam was starting to feel a little rejected.

His contemplations very nearly led to him tripping over some wayward apples when the old lady just in front of him tripped and the contents of her shopping bag spread itself across the sidewalk. "Here, let me help you," Sam offered automatically, bending to pick up the items which were within reach.

"Oh, what a nice boy," The lady grinned at him with all two of her remaining teeth. "Nice boys never stay around."

Sam tried to assess the likelihood of this one being a coven member. She seemed too old, the high priestess was in her mid-fifties but most of her coven was supposed to be younger. "So I've heard. I was visiting Golden Fields earlier."

"Did you talk to Milly?" The woman asked, holding her bag open for Sam to place the items he scooped up into. "She loves visitors. Poor old girl just couldn't cope on her own anymore, not since Schubert died."

Schubert wasn't a beloved husband as Sam had believed upon meeting Milly, but rather a beloved Labrador retriever. "I spoke to Milly. She seems very nice."

"Yes, nice," The old lady agreed. "Lots of nice women left but no nice men left for us. They all leave, drive away."

Sam frowned in confusion, "They drive away?" He tried not to give too much away just in case this was one of the coven members.

"Oh yes," The woman said mournfully. "All the good boys go and the bad boys get taken away."

Sam felt a jolt of panic arc through his stomach and he stuffed the last few items into the woman's shopping bag. "Sorry, I just remembered somewhere I need to be."

The woman nodded as if that was normal. "All the good boys go," She repeated and ambled off down the pavement.

Sam didn't run but rather dropped to one knee and started re-tying his left shoe lace. This was the signal they'd agreed on for, 'Something is seriously up. Get here now'. When Dean didn't immediately materialise at his shoulder, Sam let himself believe that it was just because he was a bit further behind than Sam thought and maybe he couldn't see the signal clearly. Sam lifted his foot up to rest on a nearby railing and made a bigger show of tying his lace, eyes scanning the milling people for any sign of his brother.

Last ditch was to head back to the motel to wait for Dean and Sam's feet were moving without any conscious effort on his part. When he passed the office and saw the smiling face of the motel girl inside, it took all Sam's willpower not to march in there and demand to know what her mother had done with his brother. Sam forced himself into his room and sat down on Dean's bed as if that somehow made it more likely that his brother was about to walk in the door.

When ten minutes passed, Sam let himself believe that maybe Dean had broken off the chase to flirt with some passing girl. He tried to believe even though he knew Dean would never abandon him like that, especially not when he was expecting Sam to get kidnapped.

When twenty minutes passed, Sam wondered if his brother had gotten himself injured. Some stupid injury like tripping over a loose piece of concrete sidewalk or getting side-swiped by a car. Some concerned passer-by had probably dragged him to hospital to get checked out and any minute now, Dean would walk in, all concern for Sam and only a couple of scratches to show for his trouble.

When thirty minutes passed, he decided that Dean had seen Sam heading back to the motel room and had decided to pay him back for the silence on the drive back from the motel. He was probably waiting outside and as soon as Sam got panicked enough to check, his brother would be there, smirking and saying something like, 'Can't live without me, Sammy?'

When forty minutes passed, Sam didn't convince himself of anything. He stood up from the bed and loaded himself down with part of their mobile arsenal. A knife strapped to his calf, one gun in a holster on the other side, another gun tucked down the back of his jeans in easy reach, one smaller knife slid up his sleeve for emergencies.

When fifty minutes passed, Sam left the room and headed towards the motel office.

The good ones go and the bad ones are taken away. Unless the good ones aren't so good and get them back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** The woods are lovely, dark and deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester had begun to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Author's Notes**: The dark starts here and only goes downhill. Be warned.

Endless gratitude to my wonderful beta, TraSan, who prevented this fic from being an incomprehensible mess. Any existing incomprehensible mess is entirely my own fault.

**Chapter 3**

"Is your room alright?" The motel girl asked chirpily when Sam walked into the room, glancing up from tapping away at the computer. Sam was almost fooled into believing she was nothing but a nice girl doing her job. He kept the image from the dream fixed in his mind even though the flames licking his brother's body seemed akin to the nausea crawling up the sides of his stomach.

Sam had scoped the area before walking in. There were no cars outside the other doors which meant everyone was likely to be out. He closed the distance between himself and the girl in three long steps and grabbed hold of the front of her blouse, tugging her away from the panic button, "Where's my brother?"

"What?" The girl squeaked, looking too shocked to do anything in that moment. Another act, Sam was sure.

"I know your mother took him. Where is he?" Sam could hear his own voice as a low growl, liking the way it vibrated in his throat.

"I don't know what you are talking about," The southern burr in her voice was more distinctive now, clashing with the fear. "Please, just let me go. I haven't seen your brother."

Sam's face felt hot and he wondered whether the girl was about to use her pyromaniac gift on him. She'd be in for a surprise. Other 'children's' gifts didn't work on him. He hauled her over the counter and backed her up against the wall. "Don't even try it. I'm asking you nicely. Where is my brother?"

"I haven't even seen your brother except in passing," The motel girl said as she scrabbled to find any kind of purchase to escape Sam.

"Don't lie to me," Sam hissed. "I know your mother has something to do with his disappearance and I know what you can do. Where did she take him?"

"My mother?" The girl said, "My mother is the head of the WI, my mother is a former nurse, my mother doesn't go around kidnapping people. Please, just let me go and I'll call the police and they can look for your brother." And drag you away to a loony farm, Sam could hear the implication in her tone.

For a moment, his grip loosened as sanity warred with the anger and worry twining itself through him but then the remembrance of her impassive face from his vision returned once more and he tightened the grip, giving her a hard shove back against the wall. "Don't lie to me. This can all be over, I'll let you go. You just need to tell me where your mother is."

The girl surprised him then, using the strength of his own grip to swing her legs up and kick him in the stomach. He suspected she was aiming for something lower and blessed her bad aim even as his grip dropped and he leaned back to clutch briefly at his stomach. He had survived being winded before and so, before she could get more than a footstep away, Sam seized her once more and pressed her against the wall, his forearm shoved against her throat, applying a light choke. "That wasn't nice," He growled.

"Just let me go," The girl was begging now, tears streaming down her face, "I promise I won't call the police, I won't tell anyone. Please."

Sam frowned. This wasn't how he'd expected it to go. He would threaten her. She'd do something, fight or flame or frown, but she'd give up the information. He didn't expect the terrified child act to continue and the lingering doubts started to coalesce in his mind, whispering that he should just let her go. Sam paused, keeping his arm in place but not applying more pressure. Make or break. He pulled the small knife from its sheath and pressed it against her neck, not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to get his point across, "Look, I'm not a bad guy. I understand you're protecting family but I need to do the same. Where is my brother?" He pressed a little harder.

The girl's chest hitched up and down as she tried to keep her neck still and not press into the blade. "I don't know," She repeated, tears running freely down her face. "Please god, I don't know. I don't know. I don't know."

Sam pulled the knife back with a long sigh, wondering exactly how this simple plan had gotten so badly fucked up. He suspected the answer was when they'd first driven into the place. He kept his arm in place for a moment, just giving himself a moment to breathe before finally bringing the arm back and assembling some form of apology or perhaps just a final plea.

That was when it went to hell. The splutter of an engine sounded pulling past the office, Sam's head jerked to follow the sound, the girl lurched to get away from Sam, Sam raised his hand to fend off an attack he expected. The girl moved, Sam moved, the knife moved and suddenly the knife wasn't waved in the air anymore, it was planted firmly in the girl's chest. Sam felt time slow, he saw the girl's mouth move in shock and then absolute stillness and she sagged down against the wall, unseeing.

Sam fell with her, his heart thumping staccato in his chest. "Hey, hey," Sam tapped her cheeks, searching for any response on her lifeless face, "Come on, breathe. Come on…" Sam realised in horror that he didn't even know her name, "Come on, motel girl." He knew it was hopeless, the angle of the knife and its placement. Sam couldn't have delivered a more perfect kill blow if he'd tried.

He heard the growl of an engine and saw a brief flash of headlights as they illuminated the body slumped against the wall in a macabre semblance of humanity. Then the car that had caused the mess drove out of the parking lot and away into the night. The fear of discovery steeled Sam into action and he scooped the body into his arms, muttering an apology as her head lolled and he made his way over to the parkland around the back of the motel.

He set her gently against a tree, arranging her as if she'd just stopped there for a rest and never gotten up. It didn't take long to fetch a shovel and dig a grave. He would have made it deeper but the clock was ticking and Dean was waiting. He lowered her gently into the ground and then wiped his fingerprints off the knife. It had been a cheap buy, untraceable back to him. Finally Sam hefted the dirt until it covered up the hole once more, pretending he didn't feel any tears coming down his cheeks.

That done, Sam retreated back to the motel room and emptied what felt like everything he'd ever eaten into the toilet.

* * *

Sam realised that his thoughts were going around in circles but at that moment, he didn't care. He should go to the police, tell them what happened but then they might not help him find Dean. He should find Dean and then he could tell Dean what happened and his big brother would make everything alright. But first he needed to find Dean and his only lead was lying in a shallow grave below a tree. 

Where was an eye-splitting, nausea-induced, brain-frying vision when you needed one?

As it turned out: just around the corner. Sam only had time to stumble over to his bed and throw himself down before the vision seized control of his brain, layering in image after image, all edged with phosphorescent light. He saw Dean, tied at the front of a large room to a wooden X, his back arching away from it where Sam could see a cross-hatch of slices, some deep gashes and others just papercut fine. A woman stood in front of Dean, the motel girl's older twin, with a long bladed knife held in her hand, the edge already run with blood.

As Sam watched, her mouth moved in soundless words before she turned, all languid grace and plunged the knife into Dean's chest. His brother's mouth opened wide in a silent scream, his head slamming backwards until finally he sagged forward, limp and lifeless.

It took a while for Sam's eyes to give him back the vision of the acid-bright motel room instead of the room in which his brother died. Adrenalin coursed through Sam but, despite the full colour ferocity of the vision, it left him very little clue about where his brother actually was. Sam forced himself back into the memory of the vision. The room was large, wood panelling which looked expensive, and a raised area at the back.

Sam tried to focus on that, tried to force his brain not to acknowledge the figure of his brother. Sam needed to be on form to get his brother out of there, not bent over from the nausea twisting in his belly. Just to the right of the stage, he could make out something stacked in the shadows, dark, curved but with a splash of red. Chairs, his brain filled in, rows of stacked chairs. "They're in the fucking town hall." Sam was at once shocked by their audacity and worried about just how he'd manage to get in there without alerting half the town.

Calm settled into Sam's skin as he set in motion, re-checking his weapons and going over the ritual to the spirits one more time. When he walked out of the motel room, he was all calm focus and sharp steel. He slid into the Impala, it would only be a five minute walk to the town hall however, judging by his brother's condition from the vision, it was unlikely Dean would be in any condition to walk. He loaded his own and his brother's duffels into the car, planning on driving out of there as soon as he had his brother back.

Sam drove far slower than he wanted to, knowing it would take just one passer-by alerting the coven and they'd call the demon in and then the shit would literally hit the fan. Sam had always hated his 'gifts' but never as much as right in that moment when they'd shown him two versions of Dean's death. He pulled into the town hall parking lot, grouching internally about the distinctive purr of the Impala's engine. Hopefully the coven wouldn't pick up on it, though it might at least give his brother some hope.

The outside of the town hall and the surrounding area were all tarmac'd over so Sam had to fight his instincts and walk away from the hall in order to perform the ritual he'd researched. As far as he knew, the Winchester family had no Native American blood so Sam didn't really believe Dean's reassurances that somehow the spirits would bind the coven's power away from them. The only reason he did this at all was because Dean told him to and somehow it felt like if he just listened to Dean then everything would be alright.

The ritual didn't take long. Sam just scattered some tobacco to the ground, hoping the spirits had no particular objection to Golden Virginia. He muttered prayers toward some of the spirits, not quite focusing as much as he usually would, knowing every second spent there was a second that he wasn't rescuing Dean. He straightened, hoping for some kind of sign that it had worked but there was nothing.

Sam didn't wait any longer, crossing the parking lot and heading towards the town hall. Once he was closer, he slunk down, trying to reduce his height as he peeked into one window. He couldn't make anything out very clearly but he recognised the scene as similar to his vision. The dark red blood plain on Dean's bare chest and back looked even more gruesome in the cold light of reality, every slice a tally mark against Sam's soul for how long he had delayed, one for every second of hesitation and self-pity.

Sam didn't wait any longer; he walked over to the door, readied his shotgun and kicked down the door. The high priestess seemed to be in some kind of trance and not even aware of the youngest Winchester's intrusion. The rest of the coven span to face him and lifted their hands, Sam braced himself but felt nothing. The confusion on the faces around him had Sam muttering a quiet prayer of thanks to the spirits.

"Such pretty blood." Sam wasn't fast enough to prevent the witch from making another long slice across Dean's chest, crimson rivulets of blood streaming down one of the few unmarred areas. Sam saw the knife turn like his vision and knew the next blow would drive straight into Dean's chest. Sam raised his gun and fired, a perfect shot in the centre of the woman's forehead.

Sam was entirely unprepared for the blast wave that emanated out of the woman's dead but still standing body. The backwash blasted at his mind, feeling like it was scouring his soul out of his body. He could see Dean's head jerk repeatedly and he worried that his brother was being sent into a seizure until he noticed the movements seemed more deliberate than that and headed in a single direction.

Sam followed the movements and spotted a small ugly clay idol sitting on a table. Two bullets bought silence.

The effect on the surviving members of the coven was instantaneous as they dropped like limp rag dolls to the ground. Sam ran uncaring past them to where Dean sagged bonelessly from his bindings.

Sam lifted his brother's chin up and flinched, every cut on Dean's body had its twin in a line of pain etched indelibly on his brother's face. Dean's mask had slipped and shattered on the ground. He watched numbly as Dean attempted to secure the mask back in place with a weak smile, "Guess we should've gone after the werewolves."

Sam wished in more ways than one that they had never come to this place. "You would only have managed to get yourself clawed." Sam reached up his sleeve for the knife then remembered that it wasn't there anymore and pulled out the knife strapped to his calf instead. He sliced through the bindings holding his brother, his reflexes barely fast enough to keep Dean from tumbling to the ground. The hisses of pain as Sam had to grab onto Dean's gashed frame cut through Sam too. He saw his brother's eyes flick to the knife still gripped in Sam's hand, blade turned away from his brother, and winced at the flinch it provoked.

He kept a grip on Dean with one arm, Dean's legs worryingly incapable of supporting him, while he tucked the knife back away, out of his brother's line of sight. "Dean, I'm gonna have to carry you," Sam apologised. "It's going to hurt." Sam didn't give his brother any chance to object as he slid an arm under Dean's knees and the other across Dean's lower back, ignoring the dampness of blood against his arm.

"M'fine, Sammy." Dean said sleepily, "Put me down and I'll walk."

"You couldn't even manage to stand, Dean. You won't be able to walk." Sam headed towards the door, keeping his eyes averted from the fallen figures of the coven. "Don't worry, it's not far to the car. I'm sure no-one will see you and ruin the reputation of the great Dean Winchester." It was worrying how little Dean was protesting.

The walk to the Impala was mercifully clear of any observers. Sam edged open the unlocked door with one foot and laid his brother along the backseat. Dean muttered protests and shifted restlessly to try and find a comfortable spot. Sam pulled back reluctantly from his brother and swung himself into the driver's seat. He revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot, heading out of the town.

Once they were clear of the town limits, Sam flipped open his phone and dialled an anonymous phone call in to the police for where they could find the coven. He wanted to include the location of the motel girl too but knew Dean wasn't entirely unconscious and he wanted plenty of time to talk to his brother over what happened and figure out what to do.

It took a long time before Sam was comfortable enough to pull into a motel and stop. It took a while before he found one that looked quiet enough that carrying his bloody brother into the room wouldn't be noticed. Sam reached into his duffel and pulled out a clean t-shirt, switching it for the one with his brother's blood on it. The motel owner was a bored-looking grey-haired man who didn't even look at Sam as he took the card, swiped a copy and then handed over a couple of keys.

Sam returned to the car and lifted his brother up into his arms; Dean had fallen asleep at some point on the journey, not even stirring when Sam pulled him out, head lolling against Sam's shoulder. He carried Dean into the motel room and set him down gently on the bed before heading back to lock up the car and retrieve the two bags and the first aid kit.

Dean was still lying in exactly the same spot and Sam had to check his pulse to reassure himself that his brother was still alive. He was hesitant to work on Dean's injuries, knowing it would likely wake him up and he'd have to face the pain once more. He headed into the tiny bathroom and filled a basin of water, dipping a cloth in and walking over to his brother.

The first touch of cold cloth against Dean's chest had his brother hissing awake, eyes darting full of fear at his surroundings. He settled back a little when they rested on Sam, taking shallow breaths to avoid stretching the skin on his chest too much. "Where are we?"

"Motel," Sam answered, not entirely sure where they were either. He'd just kept following the road away from the town and decided to figure out where he'd ended up later. "This'll sting." Sam traced the cloth along one of the slices, trying to clear away the blood enough to get a look at the actual injury, hoping that none of them would need stitches.

Fate was not smiling on Sam as within ten minutes of starting to wipe the smeared blood off Dean, he could already find two that were deep enough to need stitches and suspected he'd be using needle and thread a lot more before the job was done. "How'm I looking, Sammy?" Dean asked.

"Slightly uglier than normal," Sam jested half-heartedly.

"Jealousy is a petty emotion you know," Dean retorted.

"I need to clean these out," Sam motioned to the revealed cross-hatch of injuries across Dean's chest, "It's going to sting."

"As opposed to the pain-free bliss I'm in right now?" Dean asked.

"I could give you something for the pain. We've got some morphine."

Dean snorted, "Morphine for paper-cuts? A little over-reaction there. Just give me a couple of aspirin and I'll be fine."

One of these days Sam would have to whittle some decent pain medication down to resemble aspirin just so he could get his brother to take what he needed. Unfortunately that day hadn't come yet so Sam just fished a couple of small round tablets out of the bottle and held them out to his brother.

Dean dry-swallowed them, making a disgusted face at the taste, "Chewy cherry-flavoured aspirin are the way to go, Sam. I'm telling you."

"Except for the fact they are half as effective as regular aspirin and twice as expensive."

"So you just have to chew twice as many."

"I don't think your sugar habit needs feeding."

Once Sam was sure that the aspirin would have begun to take effect, even if just to take the edge off the pain, he reached for the bottle of antiseptic and a couple of cotton swabs. Sam tackled the seemingly largest first, drawing a hiss of pain out of his brother as he drew the antiseptic-laden swab across. His hand shook a little as he threaded the needle but he accomplished it without too much hassle, beginning the row of neat stitches to draw the two sides of the wound closed.

"Pick the bluntest needle, why don't you?" Dean grouched, shifting even as Sam tried to keep him still to prevent the clotting injuries from re-opening.

"Just for you," Sam responded, leaning back to survey his work on the first cut. There was no point bandaging them individually as they pretty much covered Dean from his collarbone to the line of his jeans at his hips; front, back and sides. Sam dipped a fresh piece of cotton in the clear liquid and set to work on the second worst injury, a deep gash that ran in line with Dean's ribs.

Dean lapsed back into silence while Sam treated the rest of his injuries, only the tight set of his jaw and the rare wince giving Sam clues of how much pain he was in. There were only four slices on Dean's front that needed stitches, the rest Sam just cleaned and resisted the temptation to cover Dean in the Flintstones plasters he'd picked up at a gas station. "Roll over." Dean obeyed Sam's command with little more than a protesting growl and a hiss as he re-settled on the stung injuries.

Sam had vaguely hoped that Dean's back wouldn't quite be as bad considering that he had been tied chest outwards to the wooden X. Obviously he must have been turned about in the restraints at some point though as, if anything, his back was worse. Two long gashes traversed the length of Dean's back, the edges wide and blood seeping out. Sam internally grumbled knowing the pain that his brother must've been in and forgetting to mention about.

Sam pinched the two sides together, blocking out the sound of Dean's yelp, and started the stitches. It was more slippery work this time, the antiseptic mingling with the blood to create a slick layer upon the skin. Twice the needle slipped from Sam's fingers and Sam had to hastily wipe some of the mix off onto the bed sheets before he could regain his grip.

Dean's breathing settled into the regular rhythm of sleep as Sam worked and he was amazed his brother could sleep while Sam stitched up his back but then Dean was no stranger to injuries. If some people could sleep through rumbling trains and others through soaring planes then it just about made sense that Dean Winchester could sleep through stabbing pains.

It was with regret that Sam had to wake him once the stitches were done but it would have been impossible to wrap the bandages around with Dean lying down. He gently aided his brother to a sitting position, ignoring the way Dean would woozily lean towards Sam when he moved, and began to unroll the bandages around Dean. It took two full rolls before the entire area was covered and Dean frowned down at himself. "I look like a freaking mummy." He shifted experimentally. "Man, no wonder those things are pissed all the time. It's freaking impossible to move. Did you have to do them so tight?"

Sam helped his brother to lie flat again, whether his brother wanted it or not. "I'm going to go see if I can find a store, get some supplies in." Sam had used up all the bandages, not to mention the antiseptic bottle was looking a little dry. "You need anything?"

"Some skin that didn't hurt would be just peachy," Dean muttered, the comment obviously not meant to be heard, "Just some beer."

* * *

By the time Sam returned from the small mom 'n' pop store that he'd found, Dean was fast asleep. Sam set down his laden armful of brown paper bags on the table and set about unpacking what was necessary into the fridge. The rest he left for that moment as he made his way back over to his brother. 

The sleep, which had appeared restful on first glance, looked more and more disturbed as Sam ventured closer. The pain was obviously troubling Dean even in slumber as his body twisted and shifted. Sam pressed a hand to his brother's forehead but, beyond the pain-induced sweat, there was no sign of fever. Sam was hoping not to need a course of antibiotics for these injuries, the knife had looked clean and, in their line of work, becoming antibiotic resistant was incredibly dangerous.

Sam pulled away from his brother's bedside and headed back to the half unpacked bags of shopping. He lined up the various pill bottles along the kitchen counter, pulling out a couple of aspirin to try and soothe the headache already brewing in the back of his skull. It could do little for the tension that Sam knew was the cause but the relief of pain in his own head just made it that bit easier to think.

He needed to tell Dean what had happened in the motel room. The idea of keeping that big a secret from his brother was ridiculous, the only question was that of timing. Dean was still struggling with his injuries and he really didn't need the knowledge of his brother becoming an accidental murderer to add to that. On the other hand, the longer Sam waited, the worse the blow would be when he did tell Dean. Would Dean think Sam hadn't trusted his brother not to turn him in? Would he think Sam didn't trust him altogether? That would be a worse injury by far than what the witch had done.

He would tell Dean tomorrow. That decision made, Sam felt that bit lighter as he tucked the last few groceries away in the cupboards. He pulled a bottle of beer out of the container for himself, tucking the rest into the fridge door to cool and settled back in a chair to watch his brother's restless sleep.

He would tell Dean tomorrow and everything would be okay.

A/N: Hands up anyone who thinks it'll be that easy? Thought not. As always, feedback is love.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** The woods are lovely, dark and deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester had begun to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the fabulous TraSan

**Chapter 4**

It took Sam a few moments to realise where he was the next morning. His neck felt stiff and sore and he rolled it a little before realising the reason: he'd fallen asleep in the chair where he'd been watching Dean. His eyes flicked up to his brother and were met halfway by hazel-green.

Dean was sitting on the bed, leant against the headboard with only the drawn lines on his face any clue of the pain that caused. The laptop was resting against bent knees and he was tapping away even as he spoke "You know how creepy that is?"

"Wha?" Sam asked, the rest of the word cut out by a yawn that erupted out of his mouth.

"Waking up with you, head bowed, in that chair watching me," Dean punctuated his words with more taps at the keyboard.

"Sorry, I'll be more careful in my stalking from now on." Sam unfolded from the chair, standing and stretching until his body felt like his own again instead of some scrunched-up simulacrum, "What are you doing?"

"Checking up on that last job," Dean answered. "Hey Sam, listen to this," Dean peered at the laptop screen. "'The small town of East Smidgeley was rocked yesterday by the brutal murder of two of its citizens, mother and daughter Elspeth and Karen Harrington. An anonymous phone call alerted police to the situation at the town hall where Elspeth was found dead from a single gunshot through the skull. Several other members of the WI were found unconscious at the scene but later made a full recovery in hospital. The body of Karen Harrington was discovered when a man out walking his dog found a shallow grave by the motel she worked at. Police are currently investigating a lead that notorious spree killer Dean Winchester was in the area and are appealing for further witnesses.'"

Dean was watching him oddly and it took Sam a short while to recall the fact he wasn't supposed to know about Karen. Sam's jaw worked for a while as he tried to come up with the right words to explain to his brother about what he'd done and whys, whats and hows that still cluttered inconsistently in his own mind.

Dean apparently took his difficulty for shock as he nodded his head, "People are sick. Probably someone who got on the wrong side of old Elspeth decided to take it out on the kid. Sam, you alright? You are looking a bit pale."

Sam felt nausea gouging its way up the inside of his throat and he barely made it to the bathroom in time to purge himself of last night's meal. He heard Dean hovering nearby, "Shit, Sammy. I forgot you liked her."

Sam bit back a hysterical laugh which mutated into more heaving, "Dean, we really need to talk," was all he managed to force out between bouts.

"I know, Sam," Dean said, crouching down at his brother's side, and Sam felt his heart leap up into his throat. "You did everything you could to get there earlier. You weren't to know the witches went for the handsome, bad boy type. Stop guilting over it, I've seen the attack of the puppy dogs thing you got going."

Sam marveled at his brother's ability to pick exactly the wrong right thing to say, "That's not it, Dean."

"You are worried over killing that witch? Seeing as she was getting a little too touchy-feely with that knife, I'm not exactly broken-hearted here. Bitch like that barely qualifies as human in the first place. It's the kid I feel sorry for. Poor thing didn't have a clue what her mother was really like, I overheard a phone call. Mommy was all sugar and candies about the WI and being home soon."

Sam wondered whether his brother was deliberately making this difficult, "About the kid…"

Dean gave him a long look, "That's what the kicked puppy look is for? The fact that you couldn't manage to save the daughter? She was probably killed after we left and I dunno about you but I didn't fancy sticking around that town. Especially not when I'm apparently the infamous spree killer. It wasn't even a good picture, didn't include my freckles."

"Yeah, guess it's silly feeling so guilty," Sam said in a voice that felt as dead as he was, "Look, just give me a few minutes, alright? I'll be out."

Sam heard the retreating footsteps of his brother and he leaned his head against the toilet, sucking deep breaths into his chest. He had to tell Dean. Sam had quite a few secrets, gathered from years of hunting and the years away at Stanford but when it was important, like this, he always told Dean. Except Dean had promised him, promised his father that if Sam started turning Sith on them then he'd do what needed to be done and killing an innocent woman was about as dark side as you can get.

What if Dean didn't believe it was an accident, his mind whispered sinuously at him. Can you live with your brother's sidelong glances, always suspicious that you'll turn on him? What harm can it do not to tell? Your brother thinks it's just a vengeful villager and you know you'll never do it again. What's one more secret between brothers?

By the time Sam left the bathroom, just the headache remaining beating against the inside of his skull, he knew this was something he'd never be able to tell his brother. Dean was sat in the same chair Sam had been sitting in earlier except now it was turned around to face the bathroom door. Sam rolled his eyes and Dean just gave a hapless smirk but Sam noticed how his brother wasn't leaning against the back of the chair in his habitual slouch.

"So, I'm thinking we should go see if those potential werewolves are still around for us to take care of," Dean said.

Sam frowned, "I was thinking we should stay here for a few days to recuperate. Do you really want to become a werewolf chew toy?"

Dean snorted, "We don't even know they are werewolves and you know it's not exactly adrenalin pumping all the research we'll have to do beforehand. I can wear a suit and ask, 'So, when did you first suspect your husband biting you in bed was something more?' like the best of them."

"I think they might notice when you wince at every movement."

"I don't wince," Dean protested. "I make a manly face of pain. I can just feed them a cock and bull story about saving children and getting the villain and that kind of heroic Walker, Texas Ranger crap."

"Fine but I'm driving."

"Whatever floats your boat but we're not listening to any of your whiny emo crap this trip. If I have to listen that girl whine about swimming difficulties any longer, I think I'll have all too clear an understanding of why Goths cut themselves."

"It's just a metaphor for…" Sam started to explain and then noticed the all too big grin on his brother's face. "Nevermind," He concluded, "You all ready to head out?"

"Yep," Dean stood stiffly and Sam could see the winces… the manly faces of pain… that he made, "Let's go hunt Werewolves."

* * *

They were two hours out of Saragon when Sam felt the vision coming. Dean had taken over the driving despite Sam's protestations, claiming that as long as he leant forward it didn't hurt. Sam had been dropping in and out of uneasy sleep, his first vision haunting him except instead of the girl's face appearing impassive as before; it dripped with blood and her mouth was opened in a scream, a post-mortal plea for mercy.

Sam felt his body twitch and stiffen and then he was lost to reality. He was in a forest, sparsely planted with the few trees it had reaching straight up towards the sky. The air was frigid and the moon was out in full, casting a silvery light through the trees, the only illumination for the scene in front of him.

Three figures hunched in the clearing, circling a fourth. Sam tried to move closer, to get more details but the vision retained control leaving Sam with a distant viewpoint straining to see what was going on. As Sam watched, one of the figures made it through the last's guard and there was a sickening tearing sound as teeth, more lupine than human, closed around its throat and tore. An unearthly howl filled the air as all three figures lifted increasingly wolf-like heads up into the air before bending over the prone body.

Sam wasn't quite sure why the vision chose that moment to send him surging forward, only that it did and he got a last glimpse at the figure before the predators consumed their prey. Short, dark blonde hair, unseeing hazel green eyes and a familiar brown leather coat. "DEAN!" He felt himself screaming and then he was being tugged backwards out of the vision, never noticing one of the werewolf's eyes reflected more sulfur yellow than gold.

When Sam came back to himself, it was to a car stopped by the side of the road and his brother's worried face, body twisted around to watch him in a way that surely couldn't be comfortable on Dean's lacerated back. "Vision?" Dean asked, keeping his tone level and blasé.

"Vision," Sam concurred, rubbing a thumb at his temple where the loitering pain remained, "I think we have confirmation on those things we're after being werewolves."

"You see the victim?" Dean asked, reaching across into the glove compartment to pull out their father's journal, flicking through the pages until he found the old entry on werewolves, "They look like this?" He held it up to Sam.

Sam took the journal and forced his eyes to focus on the picture, "Not really." He said after a moment, "They looked mostly human but hunched over, they started to look more and more wolfy as the vision went on but their eyes were gold, right from the beginning."

"Could be a different breed," Dean ventured. "Makes sense that if you get different breeds of dog then you'd get different breeds of werewolf. Think you could recognise the victim if you saw them again?"

"Pretty sure," Sam said reticently, he knew if he mentioned the victim's identity to Dean then his martyr of a brother would likely offer himself up as bait. Dean didn't need any extra encouragement at the moment to get himself nearly killed.

"That should cut down on the waiting time. All we need to do is wander around until you spot them, stick to them like stink on a warthog and then make sure to load up with silver bullets for when the werewolves try to attack." Dean frowned, "Could you recognise the werewolves?"

"Probably," Sam said, "They seemed to be a bit indistinct."

Dean grabbed the folder of print-outs he'd made in prep for the job, pulling out the previous articles and passing them over, "These are the three previous victims."

"That's them," Sam hissed, recognising the faces even from as unclear and elongated as they had become in the vision.

"Most reports have them still in the hospital. I don't think wandering in there and popping all three in the head would be the best plan. Didn't Dad mention one of his friends had been trying to find a cure for werewolves before the first manifest? Maybe this vision is about saving those three as much as it is whichever poor sucker became the chew toy."

"Jefferson, I think, but that's the same guy who almost got you suffocated when you were fourteen 'cos he came up with some madcap theory about opposite elements and tried lobbing a load of earth against the sylph that snatched you."

"Hey, it was sound theory, just a little shoddy on execution. That's why Dad always told us to phone Jefferson if you needed help and then use a good excuse for why he couldn't come help us out," Dean protested. "You call Jefferson and I'll drive, we can't be far from Saragon."

"Need your phone." Sam held his hand out, he'd deleted all the old hunters from his phone once he'd gone to Stanford, determined to prove, at least to himself, that he was one hundred percent out of that life. Dean slapped the phone into Sam's hand and Sam flicked over to the phone book and started scrolling through the names. "Seriously, bro, why do you have so many women's names in here? You never actually call them."

"Got to keep a record somehow."

Sam just rolled his eyes and kept scrolling until he got to the J's. He highlighted the entry for Jefferson and pressed dial, listening as the phone rang.

"Hello, Jefferson speaking." Jefferson always sounded mildly surprised, as if the world was constantly a mystery to him.

"Hey, It's Sam Winchester."

Sam didn't get a chance to say anything more as he heard an ecstatic, "SAM!" so loud that it made the phone buzz with a metallic grind. Sam yanked the phone quickly back from his ear and shot his brother an amused look.

"Yeah, Sam. Me and Dean are just East of Colorado."

"Dean's there?!" The man hollered again and Sam pulled back the phone once more, "It's been ages since I spoke to Dean. Can I speak to Dean?" Sam recalled the last time he had rung Jefferson while looking for his Dad. It had been an hour long conversation, mostly filled full of Jefferson's ferret on a sugar high recollections of previous hunts with their Dad and no useful information.

"Dean's driving at the moment, Jefferson, he can't come to the phone." Sam held the phone up to his brother's ear in time to hear Jefferson's disappointed 'Awww'. "We were wondering how that werewolf cure is coming."

"It's going great," Jefferson enthused, "I'm almost certain it works."

"That's great," Sam said in relief, "We've got three proto-werewolves here, any chance you could get some here?"

"Erm," Jefferson said, "Well, I haven't actually tested it on humans yet."

Sam wanted to thump his face on the dashboard and let out a groan, earning him a curious look from his brother, "So, how exactly are you almost certain it works?"

"On paper, it's perfect." Jefferson said, seeming not at all put off by the discouraged tone in Sam's voice.

"Well, it's still the best shot we got. Can you get some down here?"

"Sure, I can bring it down."

"No!" Sam quickly said, "Erm, I, there's…" He sent a desperate look to his brother. Dean attempted to mime something to him, unfortunately their childhood hadn't included regular games of charades so Sam didn't have the foggiest what it could be, "We think the werewolf virus might be airborne. It's not safe to get more people here." Dean shot him a WTF look and shook his head.

"Wow, I'll send lots of vials then. If you and Dean are infected and the cure doesn't work, let me know and I'll come down and shoot you."

"That's very kind of you, Jefferson. We'll be sure and let you know. Just send the stuff to the usual place. Hey, I think we're going through a tunnel." Sam started making hissing noises and scratching his fingers on the receiver, "I think we're breaking up, talk to you la…" He hung up.

"Dude, that was lame." Dean said, emphasising his point with a slap of the hand on the steering wheel, "Airborne werewolf virus?"

"What the hell were you trying to mime?"

"Jefferson excuse number fourteen: No, stay there, we think we might have a job in the area soon for you to check out." Dean said with a roll of his eyes.

"How the hell was," Sam flailed his hands in a vague imitation of Dean's charades, "that equal to what you just said?"

"Don't blame your sub-par skills on me." Dean said, "Jefferson bought the virus thing?"

"Yep, even offered to come down here and shoot us if we got infected."

"You know, generally when they talk about true friends helping you move bodies, they don't mean your own." Dean said with a chuckle. "So, what's the plan? Get a motel room and wait for Jefferson's stuff to arrive?"

"We should probably do some work in case it doesn't." Sam replied, "Which is pretty likely. We've still got the white coats, right?"

* * *

"Doctor Barrett, Doctor Gilmour," The nurse on duty peered at Sam and Dean's name badges, "What exactly is the CDC's interest in these cases?"

"Well," Dean put on his best serious doctor face, "There are some concerns that what's been happening here is the result of a parasitical infection spread by blood which leads to altered mental status. We could use a blood sample and to talk to the patients, see whether we can confirm our suspicions."

"Doctor Edrin is in charge of these two patients. He's on call. I'll give him a ring and let him know you are here."

"That won't be necessary," Dean said smoothly, "I think we can get most of their details from a chart and I'd hate to disturb his sleep." Dean leaned over the desk a little, turning on his full flirtation mode only with the slightest pained undercurrent, "I bet you probably know more about this than the doctors do, eh?"

Nurses were ever the under-appreciated members of the hospital so Sam wasn't entirely surprised when the nurse smiled beatifically at Dean, "Well, We do get to spend that much more time with the patient. I could tell you all about them if you want." Her eyes flicked to the other doctor, "Maybe your colleague could go interview some of the other nurses."

"Yeah Doctor Gilmour, go find yourself a nurse to talk to and I'll be sure to get the full scoop from this one." Dean winked at his brother.

Sam wasn't too keen on letting Dean out of his sight given the content on his vision but the hospital bore absolutely no resemblance to the wood they'd seen and it was still eight days until the full moon, "Fine. Doctor Barrett. I'll go check on the patients."

It wasn't much of a challenge to find the rooms with the werewolf victims in. It was a small hospital and the staff were the definition of helpful. The first room contained the chronologically first victim and Sam made a show of examining his chart with a thoughtful frown before looking at the victim. It was unusual to see his face in the calm of sleep rather than in a rictus of feral savagery as from Sam's vision.

Sam wasn't quite sure what to do when the man began to stir, opening eyes that were thankfully still a pale blue rather than gold, "Who are you?"

"I'm Doctor Gilmour from the CDC. Doctor Edrin invited us down to take a look at your case. Nothing to worry about," Sam gave his most reassuring smile, "How are you feeling?"

"Sore, looking forward to getting out of here," The man answered. "Doctor Edrin said I should be able to leave within a couple of days."

Sam made a show of consulting the chart, flipping on the pieces of paper and tapping on them with a pensive face, "Yes, it looks like your vitals are strong." Dean always teased him for watching shows like ER but it really did come in handy, "Can you tell me anything about what attacked you?"

"Does this matter to the doctors?" The man looked wary.

"Of course! If there does turn out to be something more to this illness, we will need to track down your attacker, the patient zero as it were."

"You mean I could be sick?" The man looked vulnerable lying there in the thin hospital gown, difficult to reconcile with the snarling inhuman thing from Sam's vision.

"We're waiting for the results of the blood tests. It's probably nothing to worry about, sir, we just have to take precautions. Now, about the thing that attacked you?" Sam pressed.

"Why do you keep calling it a thing?" The man quizzed, "It was just a man. Kinda embarrassing really that he got the drop on me. He was tall, probably had a couple of inches on me, a bit of a beer belly, long grey hair."

"Did you notice what colour his eyes were?" Sam asked, keeping the question as casual as he could.

The man looked a little weirded out, "I try not to stare into psycho's eyes. I think they were brown or something like that."

Sam frowned. There was something about this case which just didn't add up. After the disaster of last time, he'd really thought this might be something nice and simple. "Thanks for your help. We'll be sure to keep you updated."

The next room was more helpful. The victim, a young woman, was the most recent victim which meant that her wounds were still fresh enough to get a proper look. She stirred a little in her sleep when Sam peeled back the bandage over the wound and took a look. It didn't resemble any of the werewolf bites that Sam had seen before. He could see how the doctors could have thought it was a human seeing as it definitely looked human, no trace of the elongated jaw or fang indents he would have expected from a werewolf bite.

"Damn," Sam muttered to himself, covering up the wound again and leaving the room. There was no point in going in to see the third victim, Sam just peeked through the glass to confirm for himself that it was the same man as he had seen in his vision and then headed back to where he left Dean.

Dean was just tucking a piece of paper into his pocket as Sam approached, giving the nurse his best, 'I'll call' smile. He grinned as he saw Sam, tapping his pocket just in case Sam hadn't seen, "Doctor Gilmour, good to see you." He gave the nurse a sad look. "I better get back to work. There are lives to save." Sam sometimes wished that Dean hadn't learnt his doctor routine from daytime soaps. The nurse seemed to be lapping it up though that was probably more down to his brother's looks rather than any particularly impressive acting.

Sam waited until they were clear of the hospital doors and halfway to the Impala before speaking. "This werewolf is like nothing that we've ever seen before," He exclaimed, "The bites on the victim I saw looked entirely human."

"You sure you saw werewolves in that freaky head of yours, Sammy?" Dean asked, "'Cos nothing is matching up. From what the nurse said, the police are investigating some kind of cannibalism cult said to be local to the area, the old power of chewy delicious human flesh shtick."

"I know what I saw."

"Have you ever had a vision which didn't come true?" Dean asked, "I mean, you aren't exactly forthcoming with details unless I quiz you."

Sam shrugged, "We've stopped visions before but I don't think there's been one which had things this badly wrong." There had been the one with the motel girl and the fire but the only way Sam was getting through the day was convincing himself that the motel girl had been an accident waiting to happen. He knew it probably wasn't the healthiest way to deal but it was the only one he had.

"We might be dealing with a whole new breed of werewolf then?" Dean scowled, "I hate it when supernatural things do that."

"You want to call Bobby? See if he's heard of it."

Dean shook his head, "Nah, I think we've been bugging him a bit too often recently. We don't want him thinking that we're incompetent."

"You mean you don't want him thinking you're incompetent?" Sam teased, "Fine. We'll hold off unless we can't find anything. Next stop?"

"As much as I hate to say it, the library." Dean wrinkled his nose, "We need to figure out what about this place makes the weird get weirder."

* * *

A/N: The 'girl whining about swimming difficulties' that Dean complained about was Evanescence's 'Going Under.' I love the song myself but I don't think it's Dean's cup of tea. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** The woods are lovely, dark and deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester had begun to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks as ever to my wonderful beta, TraSan. Without her, I'd be just a quivering pile of nerves on the floor.

**Chapter 5**

The library had been a whole heap of useless. There was nothing particularly special about the town, certainly nothing to explain why werewolves had randomly decided to mutate. The only useful piece of information that Sam had managed to find was a depiction of a forest which almost exactly matched the one Sam had seen in his vision. It was called the Starslee woods and was named after a local landowner who'd planted the wood almost a hundred and fifty years ago as a private hunting ground.

Sam made sure to hide that bit of paper from Dean. He'd no idea why the pair would end up there in the current situation but he was determined to do everything in his power to make sure that they didn't. He made a copy of it just in case and stowed it in a pocket.

Dean had deserted Sam after about ten minutes of fidgeting and driving his brother nuts. He returned a couple of hours later with a coffee in each hand, much to the disapproval of the librarian. Dean just gave her his most charming smile and sauntered over to Sam, passing over one of the coffees, "Solved the mystery yet?"

"Yeah, turned out it was Miss Scarlet in the Observatory with the candlestick. Who'da thunk?" Sam said, "Does this look like the face of someone with all the answers?"

"I dunno. I'm having a little trouble differentiating between 'Puppy has an ouchie' and 'Puppy found a new toy' faces. Just saying." Dean didn't bother sitting, just hovered over Sam, sipping away at his coffee, "Got Jefferson's herbal crap. God bless express delivery. You reckon we should slip it into the wolf-to-be's IVs and see what happens?"

Sam shook his head, "Doctors can be a bit oblivious but I think they'd notice IVs acquiring a load of green sludge, not to mention it'd probably block the tubing."

"How did you know it was green sludge?"

"Because it's Jefferson."

"True that. Seriously, if I ever get bit by a werewolf, just shoot me, don't let me anywhere near any of Jefferson's green crap." Dean finally decided Sam wasn't likely to leave the library any time soon so he swung down to sit by him. "I went to the police station on my way back. Did the good cop routine and managed to get a copy of the case file. It's got a photo-fit on the guy who attacked our three wolflings. We'll need to track this bastard down even if flubber works its magic."

Dean handed over a piece of paper and Sam frowned. "I've seen this guy before." He scrabbled rapidly through the paper amassed on his desk until he found the offending sheet, a sinking crevice swallowing where his heart used to be as he realised, "His name is Archibald Starslee and he was supposed to have died a hundred years ago."

"That makes no sense," Dean took the paper and placed it next to the photo-fit, glancing between them. "Common lore doesn't give werewolves an extended lifespan, certainly not an extra hundred years."

"Seeing as nothing about this hunt so far fits the common lore then I'd say that is pretty much par for the course." Sam sounded as aggrieved as he felt.

Next Dean asked the question that his brother was dreading, "So, where'd this guy likely hole up during the time of the month he's not man's best friend?"

"I, err," Sam fished in the pocket of his jeans and retrieved the folded sheet of paper, "I think it might be here. Starslee was a landowner, planted these woods way back. The vision I had, this is where it took place."

Dean arched an eyebrow and took the paper, "You were gonna mention this when, Sammy?"

"When it was important," Sam defended himself.

"Uh-huh. I would have said that would have been right around, oh, I dunno, how about, as soon as you found out about it. What's going on, Sam? Why are you hiding stuff?"

'If only you knew.' Sam thought to himself but verbally just said, "Because, because the victim I saw in the vision was you, Dean."

"Huh," Dean said, taking the news with a bland non-expression, "Guess we don't have to worry about tracking them down. So you saw me, getting killed in those woods." It wasn't really a question as Dean studied the piece of paper, "Guess we better go check the woods out."

Sam gave his brother the look, "What kind of fucked up logic is that? You should stay as far away from the woods as possible."

Dean shook his head, "Don't be daft. Your visions always happen, right? So I'm going to end up in the woods whether you like it or not. At least this way I end up in the woods on my own terms, preferably with a nice silver arsenal. Was it dark or light in your vision?"

"I am not helping you make the vision come true, Dean. You are in no condition to go out and get yourself killed!"

"What condition would you suggest for getting yourself killed in?" Dean quipped, "Okay, fine. Not the time for humour, getting that now and I'm fine. It barely hurts anymore." The lie was blatant as if Dean believed that not even pretending it was true would somehow convince his brother.

"That would be the Winchester definition of barely hurts, would it?" Sam said, "How about you give me until the full moon to look stuff up before you offer yourself up as a sacrificial lamb to the wolf in dead old guy's clothing?"

"Think you are mixing your metaphors a bit there, Sam," Dean said, a delaying tactic while he thought. "Fine. I think we should get that serum stuff into the proto-wolves as soon as possible though. We don't know how long it will take to take effect. We'll do this your way, Sam. For now."

* * *

There were many times in Sam's life that eight days had seemed like an incredibly long amount of time. There was the time their father went on a long hunt, leaving Dean to look after his brother and fend off the inevitable questions from people who noticed two young boys out on their own. There was the time that Dean had disappeared on a hunt in the middle of woods, leaving Sam with nightmares of his brother's dead body lying undiscovered somewhere. As it turned out, Dean had been badly hurt but rescued by another hunter who had been coincidentally hunting the same patch. He had reunited the family as soon as the hunter grapevine caught him up with the details. There was the first eight days of being in Stanford when the halcyon rush of freedom mixed with the pressures of not having his brother as a safety net with missing his father and brother like crazy and the sour taste of their final argument. There was the eight days they'd spent in Palo Alto after Jess' death, searching for any sort of clue to what had killed her. 

It was ironic that the one time Sam really wanted eight days to last forever, they sped by, just laughing whispers that rushed past him. Eight days had left him with nothing. No clue to why Archibald Starslee had lived so long. No clue as to whether the serum had had any effect on the people who'd been bitten. No clue what to do to make sure his brother didn't put one single foot into those woods.

He knew he should have rung Bobby at the third day, swallowed down pride and dialled. He knew why he hadn't. Sam trusted Bobby with his life and with Dean's life but Bobby was a hunter through and through. One word to Bobby, one mistimed pause or mis-phrased question and Bobby might find the secret that Sam desperately wanted to hide, especially from himself.

The morning of the eighth day dawned so normally that Sam couldn't believe it. He felt there should have at least been a red sky to warn of what would happen today. Instead the sun just rose, light streaming in through the window to highlight where Sam sat on his bed, eyes red-rimmed and shadowed from lack of sleep, surrounded by a self-built fort of paper and books, centred on the laptop whose hum didn't comfort anymore.

Dean slept peacefully on his front in the next bed, his healing chest allowed him that now even if his back was still too sore to rest against. Sam felt that his brother's sleep should at least be troubled, that this day should be marked with some kind of foreboding, with some marker to say it was going to be a bad day. It should be Friday the 13th. It was wrong that such a grim day was just a Tuesday the 27th.

Sam sometimes wondered if his brother was right and he really did think too much.

Sam let out an irritated huff at himself and methodically destroyed his fort before sliding off the bed and pulling himself into a long stretch, flexing the traces of sleep out of his body. He'd had to stretch in the bathroom for the past few days to avoid Dean's envious eyes. The last time Dean had attempted a bone-sorting stretch, it had left him curled in on himself whimpering on the bed while Sam force-fed him pain medication.

Almost as if sensing the stretch, Dean's eyes fluttered open and he let out a yawn before starting to shift into the back-arching stretch he usually started a morning with except that muscles remembered what the lingering dregs of sleep erased and his body refused to co-operate. Dean scowled and settled for wiggling his shoulders a little, "Got breakfast yet?"

"Morning to you too," Sam replied. "I was just about to head out. You want anything?"

"Run out of M&Ms," Dean's fingers tapped the empty yellow packet on the bedside table.

"Remember what I said about not feeding your sugar habit?"

"This is a peanut habit. Completely different."

"I'm sure the candy coating had nothing to do with the addiction."

"Just a small bag, it won't hurt," Dean pleaded, using the pout in combination with the sleep-ruffled hair and the pain lurking in his eyes to devastating effect on his defenceless brother.

"One bag and then I'm cutting you off," Sam said, pulling on his boots and heading towards the door, hesitating with his hand on the door knob, "Don't go anywhere while I'm out, okay?"

Dean snorts, "Guess I'll cancel the tickets to Disneyland. I'll be a good boy, have a nice shower and even wash behind my ears."

Sam rolled his eyes and headed out of the door.

* * *

The moon hung full and mocking in the velvet blue sky as Sam moved soundless through the trees, his eyes moving more to track his brother's movement than it was to track ahead of him for the monsters that were waiting. Sam clenched the comforting weight of the silver half-moon blade in his hand and kept a hand at his hip where the gun loaded with gleaming silver bullets sat. 

Movement to his right drew his attention and he saw another figure ghosting through the trees. Sam snapped a quick signal to his brother and then moved through the trees to check it out. Dean nodded an acknowledgment and kept to his own creeping pace. Sam used the shadows of the trees to move unseen behind the figure, recognising the moon-cast golden hair as the woman of the three patients from the hospital.

He obviously wasn't quite as silent as he thought because the woman spun around to face him. In one moment the moonlight revealed ordinary green eyes and in the next they were the gleaming gold of his vision-spurred nightmares. Sam raised his gun and fired off a single shot into her skull, cursing Jefferson's useless serum. The woman dropped without even a scream to the leaf carpeting of the forest. Sam slunk over to her and gently closed her eyes before stepping over the body and continuing on with the hunt.

The hoot of an owl sounded through the mostly silent forest and Sam cupped his hands to his mouth to give the response to let his brother know he was alright. Sam angled his course to head back towards his brother's position. Common sense on a hunt said to split up. Common sense when you've seen a vision of your brother's death dictates that you stay as close to him as possible.

He saw a shape ahead of him moving through the trees, slipping from shadow to shadow. Sam moved in that direction, looking to join up with his brother. It was only when a shaft of moonlight caught the right angle that Sam saw the hair was dark brown rather than his brother's dirty blonde. Up a bit further, he could make out another figure, this time with the right posture and frame to be Sam's brother. There was a monster stalking his brother and that wasn't something Sam could allow.

Sam moved closer, wanting to be sure that the serum hadn't worked before he took the man out. He deliberately stepped on a twig, the crack sounding loud in the night air. The figure span and Sam saw liquid gold in place of normal eyes and the figure took one step towards Sam, hands held outwards. Sam lifted the gun and fired once more, the silver slug finding its mark in the man's forehead.

The crack of a gun in the quiet around drew Dean's attention and the two reached the man's body almost simultaneously. Death had reverted the man's eyes back to their normal colour and Sam bent to close the man's eyelids, "Serum didn't take," He said sadly to his brother, "Caught up with the woman over there. Same gold eyes as he had."

Dean shook his head, "We should have come here first, the witches could've waited. Maybe given enough time…" Dean never seemed to dwell long on regrets in the middle of the hunt, "I thought I caught sight of something through the trees ahead. Come on."

Sam shadowed his brother's footsteps, only breaking away to seek separate cover when the moon lit up the scene too well. It took a while for his eyes to spot the shadow his brother followed, it was more inconspicuous than the other two but then it was the oldest victim, perhaps the poison coursing through it had had longer to work.

He could see the trees thinning out to a clearing up ahead and Sam's heart started to thump more staccato in his chest. The clearing looked far too similar to the sparse trees from his vision. He motioned a halt to Dean and could make out his brother's frown, even in the darkness. He slunk over to his brother's hiding place, keeping his low frame as close to the ground as possible.

"What?" His brother hissed, voice barely louder than the breeze bustling through the trees.

"This is just like what I saw in my vision." Sam replied.

Dean rolled his eyes, "No shit, Sherlock. That is what we're doing here."

"Dean!" Sam was annoyed, "I saw you die in my vision."

"You also saw all three of the hospital people attacking me in your vision. I think you and me together can handle the one that's left." Dean spoke to Sam but his eyes were fixed on tracking the one remaining through the shadows. "Come on, he's getting too far ahead." Without giving Sam the opportunity for another word, Dean broke from their current cover and made his way across to the next.

The last victim, James Marchant, stood in the centre of the clearing, a look of perplexity on his face as he span about. He looked like he was waiting for something but entirely unsure of why. Sam held his breath as Dean circled for Sam to move around to the right, come at the man at different angles: werewolf enhanced strength was nothing to laugh at.

Sam saw his eyes like liquid pools of gold under the moonlight, the last hope for Jefferson's serum fading away. He motioned to get his brother's attention and then pointed to his eyes and then to James, hoping his brother could see the same thing he did. Dean motioned across to his own eyes and then threw up his hands in a confused gesture. Obviously Dean couldn't get a good angle on him from here. Sam sighed and readied his gun.

He and Dean emerged out from the line of the forest at the same time, keeping the guns trained on James, making sure they didn't get in each other's line of fire. They had agreed tactics for this situation before leaving and Sam had had to talk Dean out of acting as bait. Instead it was Sam that drew his attention, "James."

The man's head spun to face Sam and his golden eyes seemed to gleam almost brighter, "Who are you? What are you doing out here?"

"We're here to help you. We can make this all stop." Sam was filled with compassion for the man who'd simply been somewhere at the wrong place at the wrong time. Dean usually teased him that he'd bring home werewolf pups once of these days, convinced he could train them to be guard dogs. Sam usually told Dean he wasn't that fucking stupid. Some things were born dark and that was just the way it was.

"Stay back!" The man yelled, spinning between Dean and Sam, trying to keep an equal eye on both, "Here's a hint about reassuring people, don't point a gun at them."

"We have to," Sam said, feeling incredibly tired in that moment, "You've been infected by something and there isn't a cure, I'm sorry."

"Sam," Dean spoke and James' attention instantly switched back to his brother, "His eyes," Dean pointed with the gun clenched in his hands upwards, "Maybe the cure worked."

Sam frowned, James' eyes didn't look any less auric to him, "There's no change, Dean." He called back.

"Exactly," Dean answered, "That means he should be alright."

Sometimes Sam thought his brother made absolutely no sense and this was one of those moments, "No change is bad, Dean." Sam kept his gun levelled on James, even as he twisted his body to face towards his brother.

Dean dropped his gun a little, angling himself to face Sam, "You aren't making any sense, Sam. How can no change be bad? You said the others were bright gold."

James apparently decided to use the brothers' distraction as he made a dash towards Dean and Sam cursed the fact that Dean had dropped his guard. Dean took a couple of quick steps backwards, almost back into the line of the forest as he lifted his gun up. "Stay there," he called but James kept barrelling forwards.

Sam could tell his brother wasn't going to be able to bring the gun up fast enough to get a headshot so he rapidly shifted his own aim and fired. The bullet ripped through the back of James' skull, spraying blood and brain matter over Dean who was only about a foot away from him at that point.

Sam lowered his aim, releasing his two handed grip on his gun to let it dangle in his right hand and breathing a sigh of relief. That was when another shadow stepped out of the forest, Sam's brain recognised it was Archibald Starslee even as he yelled out a warning. Dean reacted too slow and he was still in a half-spin when the shadow gripped his arms, twisting them behind his back and using him as a human shield in the line of sight between Sam and Dean.

"What a treat," The voice seemed serpentine, rattles and hisses speckling through his tone. "I call for three and end up with five." He moved his neck far more sinuously than the wrinkled flesh would suggest and sniffed at Dean's neck before protruding a pink tongue and licking at the exposed skin, "Delicious."

Sam tried to steady his hands enough to get a shot at the exposed head but he was too far away and the man seemed to move too quickly. "Let my brother go."

"Or what?" The man said, high and fine, "There doesn't seem to be much you can do at the moment. Guess lunch is on me." Quicker than Sam would have believed, the man's mouth opened wider and then he sunk his teeth into Dean's neck. Sam closed his eyes for a second, clearing blurring vision and then fired. His aim was thankfully true as the silver bullet skimmed perilously close to Dean's cheek and found its home in the man's forehead. The man tumbled backwards and Dean followed, still held in a tight grip.

Sam crossed the distance in several long strides and tugged his brother away from the werewolf's grip, firing another bullet point blank into the centre of its skull, just to be sure that it truly was dead. Dean was sluggish in his arms and Sam dragged his brother away from the bodies before setting him gently on the ground, "Dean? You alright?"

"Feel funny," Dean said, eyes fluttering about.

"It's alright. I got the werewolf." Sam ripped off the bottom of his t-shirt and pressed it against Dean's neck, checking for the pulse which was racing far too fast for adrenalin alone to explain. "Come on, Dean. We got to get you back to the car. You need a hospital." _And Jefferson's serum._ Sam was hoping that the werewolf bite had been too short in duration to take effect.

"Sammy, everything… it's spinning. I…" Dean's body arched upwards, back so curved that Sam was sure it must be on the point of breaking before he slammed back down into the ground and he started convulsing.

Sam gripped onto Dean's shoulders, "I'll get you out of here, Dean. Just hang on." His breath caught in his throat and his brother peered blearily up at him through eyes now more gold than hazel. Sam stumbled backwards, tears stinging his eyes, "Oh god, Dean."

Dean didn't reply though his head managed to turn to face Sam a little, eyes blank even as his body continued to convulse.

Sam swiped away at his eyes, hands trembling as he lifted up the gun one final time, "God, Dean. I'm so sorry. So sorry." He raised the gun, took aim and pulled the trigger.

A/N: The Sam as a puppy references are something I couldn't resist. Refers to kroki-refur's wonderful 'Sam is a puppy' picspam which can be found on her livejournal.

Oh, and I wrote this chapter on the 18th of March, Heart aired on the 22nd. So the whole werewolves and Disneyland thing… Yeah, Kripke, outta my head!

Hope y'all still reading. Feedback, concrit or other, is adored.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** The woods are lovely, dark and deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester had begun to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Warnings: **LongShot as a whole includes multiple character deaths along with general darkness.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Author's Notes: **This chapter is outsider PoV. For those wondering what Sam's thinking through most of it, that'll come in the next chapter. I just wanted to take a step back here and peek in. Feedback is adored and feeds the muses who are in a slump at the moment (slump fortunately doesn't affect this LongShot as it's all written)

**Chapter 6**

The minute that Sam Winchester walked into Ellen's bar, she knew something was wrong. For one thing, as much as Ellen stared at the door, Dean Winchester didn't materialise. For another thing, Sam was looking like he'd been a spectator at the biannual puppy kicking Olympics.

Ellen reached a cold beer out of the fridge and opened it up in one smooth movement. She clunked the beer down on the bar and motioned Sam to the bar stool, "Heya, Sam."

"Ellen," Sam croaked out and, as Sam stepped into the full light of the bar, Ellen could see that he looked like hell. His hair needed a good wash or twelve, it lay greasy and lank against his face. His eyes had shadows so deep that Ellen saw demons reflected within them. She doubted he'd had any real sleep for at least a week.

Ellen reached underneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of whiskey before pouring a generous measure into a tumbler. She didn't bother to add any ice before slapping it down in front of Sam, "What happened?"

Sam's eyes dropped to the bar. He grasped ahold of the beer bottle and drained it down his throat, gulping it until the bottle was empty. As soon as the last drop drained from lip to lips he just let it drop down to the ground with a smash. He didn't wait a breath before grabbing the whiskey and tossing that back, eyes watering from the burn. It seemed he needed all the fortification he could to get out the next words, "Dean's dead."

Ellen didn't say anything though several expletives in various languages came to mind. Instead she sloshed more whiskey into his glass then served herself a generous measure, leaving the bottle on the table.

She wasn't surprised when Sam just grabbed the bottle and started tipping the amber liquid down his throat. When he showed absolutely no sign of slowing before his liver gave up, Ellen grabbed the bottle back off him, engaging in a brief tug of water which left amber pools on the wooden bar top. She fastened the top on and tucked it back under the bar. Sam grasped the measures Ellen had poured for the both of them and knocked those down instead before lifting his head to regard Ellen balefully.

Ordinarily Ellen would punch anyone that snaked her booze but one look in desolate eyes and she just settled back on the stool behind the bar. "Drinking isn't going to help matters, Sam." Ellen knew her words were water off a duck's back, "What happened?"

"Werewolf," Sam said and the two simple syllables rang with utter hatred, the like of which Ellen had never wanted to hear in the youngest Winchester's voice; God knows she'd heard it often enough in his Daddy's.

Ellen winced. She'd often heard stories about werewolf victims, they usually included the words shredded, torn, ripped and mangled. The thought of that happening to Dean Winchester… Ellen retrieved the bottle from beneath the bar and served herself and Sam another shot, this time making sure she got to drink hers before Sam could steal it. "I'm sorry, Sam. You know if there's anything I can do…"

"Can you bring my brother back?" Sam asked in what Ellen had termed his lost little boy voice and the one she had thanked God that she hadn't had to hear too often.

"I can't do that, Sam."

"Then there's nothing you can do for me." Sam said in a voice two degrees colder than the grave.

And that was how it went for the next two months. Sam wandered out during the day, Ellen didn't know where and didn't want to ask. Sometimes he returned with a cut lip or bruised knuckles, sometimes with something almost approximating a smile. During the night, he drank himself into oblivion, only pausing when he turned maudlin enough to beg Ellen to bring his brother back. Shortly after that, Sam usually sagged into unconsciousness and Ellen set him up in the spare bedroom. Some of Ellen's regulars started avoiding the bar, the image of another hunter falling to pieces too painful for their eyes.

It was two months down the line that the question changed from 'Can you bring my brother back?' to 'How far is too far to go to bring my brother back?' and that worried Ellen. It's about that time that Sam started asking her for hunts too. Ellen was reluctant, not because she didn't think the long-haired hunter could hunt solo, she's sure he's more capable than half the hunters in the bar, but because he never has.

In the end she fixed him up for a joint hunt with a hunter she trusted, Jake. The guy was used to working with a partner, his usual recently left him to go get married and have two point four children. She found them a nice milk run job, a haunting about a hundred miles south of the roadhouse, body already located just needed someone to nip down there and salt and burn.

They returned a week later. Jake had a haunted look on his face whereas Sam looked oddly exuberant, a pale shadow of the man she remembered but a present shadow nonetheless. When Sam had drunk himself into oblivion once more, Ellen turned to Jake and asked how the hunt had gone.

"Never let that boy hunt with anyone else ever again," was all that Jake said before leaving the bar. Ellen never saw him again and last she heard, he'd settled down with a family of his own and was pretending the monsters never existed. Ellen found simple hunts for Sam and never paired him up again.

* * *

Then one day, Sam left. Sam went out one morning as usual and never came back in the evening. She'd scouted around the nearby area for him but he wasn't anywhere local. She'd no idea what car he'd driven to get to the roadhouse except that it hadn't been the Impala. She hadn't worked up the nerve to ask the fate of Dean's car yet.

It'd been two months since Ellen had seen Sam that she next heard about him. She was moving about the roadhouse after a busy Wednesday night, picking up the glasses that it was apparently too much effort for the hunters to return to the bar. She passed a table of familiar faces, all worn and with new injuries showing, carrying on a hushed conversation. She was about to walk straight past when she caught a single word. "Winchester."

Now in this place, it's always possible they'd just be talking about the rifle. A few times in the past couple of months, Ellen had done just that, eavesdropped on a conversation which turned out to be just about guns but this time, there was something in the man's inflexion that said he was talking about a person, not a weapon. It also sounded like he was talking about a person he didn't particularly like. Ellen paused, tray of glasses not quite quivering in her hand.

"God knows how that one turned out so bad," She heard one of the hunters, a whipcord thin Hispanic man called Diego, say, "His father and older brother were two of the finest hunters I'd ever hoped to know."

"Not talking 'bout Sam Winchester, are you?" Ellen interrupted, setting her tray to rest on the edge of table, "Sure, he's a bit shook up over his brother's death but give him a bit of time and he'll be back to fine." Ellen wasn't sure, even then, if she believed her own words.

Three sets of eyes turned to Ellen's but it was the Diego who spoke, "Ellen, he killed Edgars." The man's tone was pitying.

"What?" Ellen felt the blood drain from her face and she leant against her hands on the table, eyes drifting to the empty chair at the table where the group's fourth usually sat. A full glass of beer sat in his place, the drink for the dead: a hunter tradition. Ellen tried to re-gather herself, shaking her head, "No, Sam wouldn't."

"Sam did," Diego stated in a quiet voice, pulling over a chair from a nearby table, "Maybe you should sit down."

Ellen allowed herself to thump down into the seat. "Tell me what happened," She demanded, making her voice as strong as she could manage.

All eyes turned to Connor, the born storyteller of the group. Every few years he would announce his retirement from hunting to write a series of novels based on the hunting life and usually less than a month later he'd be back, complaining of boredom.

Connor took in a deep breath, leaning back on his chair and settling his hands on his thighs, "It all started when Aaron received word of an incubus hunting near San Diego. The damn thing was smart, preying on old widows who were likely to die in their sleep anyway and using their money to shift himself further up society. You know when an incubus starts getting smart that the world is really going down the pisser."

"It looked like an easy job. The four of us would stake an area, move around between the houses and keep an eye out. It was one of Edgars' biddies that got attacked. He sent the signal up and we all converged on the thing. Unluckily it'd slipped past him and out to the woods but he'd caught its trail and left us some signs to follow. Edgars was damn wood smart," Connor raised his glass, clinked it with the other two and drank for their missing member.

"I caught up with Edgars first but Diego and Aaron were just a footstep behind me. We converged from all sides, had the damn thing dead to rights. We should've guessed that something was wrong from the way that damn thing kept smirking at us, blood red lips curled up to show bright white teeth. But when Sam Winchester stepped out of the trees close by, I just thought 'Huh, more back-up.'"

Ellen noticed Aaron catch the eye of one of the hunters at the bar and motion for a whiskey to be sent over. She was well used to the hunters serving themselves as long as they didn't stiff her when it came to paying. When the whiskey was brought over and set in front of her though, she knew that this story was only going to get worse.

Connor paused to wet his own throat, taking a more than generous swig of his beer, "I'd never had the pleasure of hunting with a Winchester though I'd heard all the stories that circulate about them. Edgars had and he just stepped forward towards Sam, grinning in that affable way he always did. I swear the guy was more puppy than man sometimes. He called out 'Hey, Winchester!' and Sam turned, shotgun in hand."

Ellen tightened her hand on the glass that she'd just been playing with and knocked back the amber-gold liquid, feeling the burn preparing her body for the hurt to come.

"I was worried that he was going to shoot straight off, he had such a determined look in his eyes. But Edgars didn't even flinch, just smirked, 'Easy, Winchester. Reflexes running high?' Sam didn't lower the shotgun though, kept it pointed at Edgars' chest and shook his head. I don't know what comfort it'll be but I think I saw regret. 'Go back,' Sam said, 'Just leave.'"

"Needless to say, we all weren't so keen on that. At the time, I just figured it for Sam getting a little too possessive 'bout his prey. We heard a few rumours about the hunt with Jake and it's bantered about that Sam Winchester didn't play well with others unless it was his brother, Dean, and well, that's not really an option anymore." To Ellen's surprise, the three raised their glasses and clinked to Dean's memory too, despite the fact his brother had taken one of their own.

There'd been a glass sitting at the bar for a month after Sam had given the news. She knew Sam hadn't put it there, his father had kept the boys separate from most hunters, not passing on the traditions. She'd yet to find out who'd had but she wished it'd been her.

"Edgars still seemed convinced this was just some misunderstanding and he told Sam we could take the thing down together. That incubus just kept smiling away and that was when Sam said the words 'I'm not here to hunt it, I'm here to protect it.'" Connors was a practiced story-teller and even a matter as serious as this couldn't dim his art and so he paused in that moment, letting the words echo into the silent hollow they created. Another whiskey was brought to Ellen's hand and this time she wasn't sure who'd signalled for it, it might have even been her.

"We didn't want to believe it," Connor said in as voice as soft as the whispering winter wind, "We just froze in that moment, eyes on the boy and the incubus. Aaron broke the silence, demanded 'What?' Sam just shook his head, 'You wouldn't understand. Just leave now,' he threatened, 'I don't want to hurt you.'"

"I'll admit now that I laughed, I couldn't help it. There were four of us, two of them and Sam Winchester, well, he doesn't look like he'd say boo to a goose half the time. I was sure he was a good hunter, I'd heard the tales but his father and brother always exuded danger, Sam never did. That's probably why Edgars felt safe, why Edgars stepped forward to take the gun away from Sam and that's the moment that Sam pulled the trigger." The three lifted their glasses again and this time Ellen joined them, knocking her whiskey back though the burn barely affected the numbness settling over her body now.

"I admit that what happened next is a little fuzzy but I'll do my best to tell. It was like the sky'd just turned purple on us, you are sure that it's happened but your brain just refuses to process the information. We all saw Edgars fall and we saw the dirt brown of the forest floor spread with red but I couldn't move, afraid that to move would be to make it real and if I just stayed still long enough, Sam Winchester would've been pointing that damn rifle at the incubus. Instead he swung it back around at us but didn't pull the trigger again, backing away into the escape route left clear by Edgars' fall."

"Aaron tried to help Edgars but he was already dead. Sam at least gave him a clean death. By the time we'd gathered our wits, Sam and the incubus were long gone. We burned Edgars not far from where he fell and scattered his ashes on the ashes of the home he once had then we came here." With those words, Connor folded his hands on themselves, a tacit sign that the story was over.

Ellen leaned back on her chair, trying to ignore the tears she could feel trickling down her cheeks and hoping she'd see Sam again soon and there'd be some sort of explanation.

* * *

The next time Ellen saw Sam Winchester was three months later and in circumstances so ordinary that she almost didn't believe it herself. She'd gotten a call from one of the few retired hunters who'd actually managed to stay retired. His wife had just given birth to their first child and he wanted Ellen to be one of the godparents. Ellen had driven straight there, trusting the care of the bar to one of the more steady hunters.

About an hour away from the maternity hospital, Ellen had stopped off at a small gas station to pick up some flowers and decided that the tall figure with a half-full basket looked familiar. Ellen had never been a hunter nor had she ever wanted to be but that didn't mean she hadn't picked up a good dollop of caution along the way. She approached slowly, giving herself a clear path to the exit before asking, "Sam?"

"Ellen!" Sam paused in popping a packet of peanut M&Ms into his basket and his expression was so open and boyish that Ellen regretted believing any of the rumours about him, "Sorry that I haven't been to the roadhouse recently. I had a feeling certain misunderstandings meant I wouldn't be welcome."

"I admit there've been a few rumours had me concerned about you." Ellen hedged.

"I guess things look pretty bad from an outside perspective," Sam said, looking abashed, "Look, you got a spare hour to chat? I'm staying in a motel near here and there's a diner close, dinner is on me."

Ellen had made good time across country and knew the new family wouldn't be expecting her for another couple of hours, "Sure." She agreed.

"Okay, just let me pay for these." Sam gestured to his basket, "I don't want to add being a felon to my list of problems at the moment."

Ellen wasn't quite sure what to make of this upbeat Sam. The shadows under his eyes were gone and there was a bounce back in his step. Her hand hovered briefly to the cell phone tucked in her pocket, wondering whether back-up was a sound idea. She dismissed her suspicions, she owed the boy a chance to tell his story, and there wasn't much likely to happen in a public place like a diner. She arranged with Sam to meet there once Sam had paid for his things and dropped them off.

The fact that the diner was busy came as a relief to Ellen, the suspicions loitering around Sam refusing to shake themselves entirely. She ordered a coffee for herself and idly perused the menu. Sam joined her about ten minutes later and grinned at the waitress with jovial familiarity, ordering himself a coffee as well before turning to Ellen and recommending the all-day breakfast, "Enough food to keep even Dean happy."

That was when the first trickle of doubt shivered down Ellen's spine. Maybe it'd been a mistake but Sam had referred to his brother almost in the present tense, "All-day breakfast?" She asked, trying to keep any hint of a quiver out of her voice, "Probably a little too much for me. How's the shepherds pie?"

"Not bad. Aggie tends to mix some mint in with the lamb, makes it that bit nicer." Sam said, "Though the carrots and peas tend to be frozen rather than fresh."

The conversation is so banal and normal that Ellen forced back all the questions she really wanted to ask and focused instead on the trivialities, "How long have you been here?"

"About a month," Sam replied, motioning the waitress over and placing his order for the all-day breakfast. Ellen ordered the shepherd's pie and the waitress bustled off again, "It's really nice here. Everyone is real friendly. Even cute waitresses for Dean."

That was the second time and the chill in Ellen's spine turned into a block of ice, "About Dean…" She ventures.

"He's not here yet," Sam said matter-of-factly, "But I'm working on it." He took a sip of the coffee, "This is why I can talk to you. You understand about families and about the lengths you will go to for them."

Ellen sipped her own coffee to give her mind time to percolate or rather to come up with appropriate phrasing for dissuading Sam from necromancy. For one thing, she was sure the first thing Dean would do if he came back from the dead was kick his brother's ass for being so stupid, "I would do just about anything for Jo but sometimes you have to let them go."

Sam frowned at Ellen, looked at her like she was a Rubik's cube and he's just trying to find the right angle and he'd have the solution, "You told Dean once that you would always try to protect your loved ones forever or something like that," Sam stated in a level reasonable tone, "That's all I'm trying to do."

"Jo? Yes. I will try to protect her forever, as much as I can when she's probably hundreds of miles away but forever stops the day she dies. Don't you think I'd give almost anything to have my husband back? But I can't and I have to face that." Ellen tried to reason with the man seated opposite her.

"But what if you could," Sam said and it's so quiet that Ellen had to lean forward to hear, "Dean gave up his life for me and Dad. Why can't me and Dad give up our deaths for him?"

"You aren't dead, Sam."

"Aren't I?" Sam asked with such a flat look in his eyes that it took everything Ellen had not to run screaming out of the diner. He glanced down at his large hands, cupping them around the fragility of the coffee mug.

"No, you aren't," Ellen said, "Is that why you've been going round acting like such a damn fool? You are half-dead already so it doesn't matter?"

Sam shook his head and looked wistfully to Ellen, "No, I really thought you'd understand. I'm doing what I'm doing because it's the only way He'll bring Dean back."

Ellen got used to the way Winchesters talk over the years and one of the things she picked up was that special intonation when they talk about the demon, like they invented a whole other language similar yet achingly different to English just in order to give their family trauma its due. When Sam said He, Ellen knows exactly who he's referring to and she shuffles back on her seat, "Sam, you can't do that!"

Sam looked up at her, perplexed, "Why not? My dad did."

"Your dad exchanged his life for Dean's," Ellen had heard the story enough times from the boys, "What you are doing… It's worse than your death and Dean's already dead."

There's a split second where Sam looked like the Sam from Ellen's most recent memories, broken, shattered but then the mask or whatever it was that constituted Sam Winchester slide back up, "I really thought you'd understand," He said with a sad shake of the head, "I told Him I couldn't do it if you understood but you don't." Sam struck forward like a snake and Ellen found her throat caught in one of those large hands.

There were screams all around her from the fellow diners but then everything slowed and Sam's full attention shifted back to her and to the breath-stealing pressure on her throat, "It's alright, Ellen. Just a few more and I'll have Dean back and then everything with be alright." He had that puppy dog innocent expression on his face and it was so twisted even as he tightened the pressure on her throat. Ellen's eyes dart to the sluggish patrons, desperately begging for help.

"Don't worry," Sam said, "They won't remember anything." He lifted one hand and with eerie gentility stroked her hair, "You get to be with your husband now. Tell Dean I'm doing everything I can, tell him it won't be long."

Ellen's vision turned grey at the edges as her body lost the last traces of oxygen it was retaining and, as her body slowly shut down, she tried to remember the boy she once knew. "Just rest now, Ellen." Sam's voice soothed and Ellen obeyed.

* * *

The minute that Bobby's phone rang, he knew something was very wrong. At first when it turned out to be just one of his fellow junk dogs he breathed a little easier. That was until the friend mentioned something about being called out to drag an Impala found abandoned. Bobby was in his truck and driving before his friend had time to finish what he was saying.

Within two footsteps of his buddy's yard, he knows it was The Impala. He'd watched as Dean had built that beauty back from scratch, knowing better than to offer help. He still knew every scratch, every dent, the places Dean didn't hammer out because that's how they'd always been. He swore that Dean had actually purposefully dented some parts of the Impala. He didn't rebuild an Impala, he rebuilt The Impala.

His buddy handed him a beer and didn't talk details. He didn't ask for money for the abandoned car nor ask whose it was. He didn't even bat an eyelid when Bobby ripped the lurid yellow abandoned car sticker from the front windscreen and stomped it below his feet. When frustration boiled over and a few tears leak out of Bobby's eyes, his buddy did the right thing and pretended they didn't exist.

By the evening, Bobby was driving back to his yard with the Impala hooked carefully up to the back, making sure that no new scratches got added.

He found a cosy corner in his yard and nestled the Impala in there, making sure to wipe all the dirt from the journey off her before Bobby let himself go to bed. He said good night to her every evening before he turned in and good morning as soon as the sun was up. If he's going to be away for a few weeks on a long hunt, he'd let her know. If he's late back, he apologised. Sometimes Bobby wondered whether he had actually lost his mind. He kept up these rituals though because to break them was to break the hope that Sam and Dean Winchester were gonna saunter up to his doorstep and ask what the fuck Bobby was doing with their car.

It took him a long time to get around to dialling other hunters. At first, it's all no news. No, this hunter hadn't heard from Sam or Dean. No, they didn't know what hunt they might have been on in the area the Impala was found. Yeah, sure, they'd let Bobby know if they hear anything. It took a while before Bobby called the road house. He knew about it for a long time, sure, but there was something about hunters all clustered together which sounded wrong to him, recipe for disaster. Plus he never appreciated Ellen blaming John for her man's death. A hunter lives or dies by himself, ain't nothing no-one else can do 'bout it. It has nothing to do with the road house being about his last hope, nothing at all.

He set a beer down on the table and lined it up with another, not wanting to move from the table once he started. He dialled the number and pressed the phone too close to his ear, listening to each and every ring.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse, Ellen speaking."

"Hey, it's Bobby Singer." Bobby didn't need to say more than that, every hunter either knew who Bobby was or had his head buried in the sand.

"Bobby," There's sad regret in Ellen's voice and Bobby knew whatever she's about to say wouldn't be good news. He wanted to slam the phone down right there and keep pretending but Bobby has always lived in reality, a twisted and skewed reality sure, but reality nonetheless and ignoring the truth just gets you killed a bit faster, "I'm so sorry about Dean."

The words bite through Bobby, tearing into his heart and Bobby grabbed the beer and took three long glugs, enough that he can breathe again, "What happened?" He asked, his voice gruff and harsh.

"You didn't know?" Ellen said, a soft gasp on the line, "Oh god, I didn't mean to tell you like that. I thought you knew, I thought Sam would have told you."

All rumours had said Ellen was one of the most composed and together women in the hunting business so Bobby was surprised that something like this could've reduced her to babbling but then the Winchester boys often had that effect on anyone lucky enough to get within reaching distance of their inner circle, "Friend of mine picked up the Impala. I got it here in my yard."

"I had wondered what had happened to it," Ellen said but it's not really a comment to Bobby but a fill in of the conversation, "Sam turned up here about a month back, told me Dean's dead."

"What?" It's a simple question but Bobby had to force it out, wondering whether he really wanted to know.

"Werewolf." Ellen said and Bobby let loose a stream of curses in about six different languages including Latin, Ancient Greek and a demonic tongue he'd learnt on a dare. When he ran out of words before he ran out of anger, he began making them up: guttural noises which were the closest he could come to expressing his rage. Finally he ran out of breath and he rested his head against the phone, breathing in the silence. "Yeah," came Ellen's quiet acknowledgment.

"How's Sam?" Bobby asked, knowing the answer.

"A mess," Ellen said, "I'm trying to help him but I don't think there's much that I can do. He's drinking himself stupid every night, falling unconscious on the floor. I've no idea what he gets up to during the day and I don't dare ask."

Bobby winced, "You should send him up to me. I'll look after him."

He can almost hear Ellen's head shake, the soft swish of hair, "I don't think that's a good idea. I know you and the boys were close but you are too tied to him and Dean. Sam needs to remember how to be Sam again."

Part of Bobby acknowledges that Ellen is right, but most of him wants to see if there are any more swear words he missed out the first time. Instead he just says, "Fine," and hung up.

* * *

It's five months before Bobby called the road house again. He'd kept himself busy but stayed away from the hunting community, not wanting to see the Winchester sized hole there. Instead he'd kept angry with himself. He coped just fine before the Winchester family showed up on his doorstep and he'd do just fine after. If he still cleaned and talked to the Impala, that's perfectly fine. She's a sweet ride and everyone knows to take good care of fine cars.

In the end, he couldn't resist the temptation to check up on Sam. He never quite got on as well with the younger Winchester. He liked Sam as a kid, sure enough, even if he could drive Bobby to distraction. Sam as a teenager was enough to drive the most patient man to drink and Bobby was never a patient man. Sam as a man was a conundrum, Bobby missed a lot of his formative years, only meeting him again when he was full of anger at his girlfriend's death and at the life in general.

Bobby thought perhaps it's his allegiance to Dean which lead to him making the call.

The voice that answered however wasn't Ellen. It's younger and higher, less of a southern burr to it. "Harvelle's Roadhouse, Jo speaking." Ellen's daughter, Bobby never met her though he heard a rumour she'd struck out on her own.

"Jo? It's Bobby Singer."

"Hi," Wariness and confusion coloured the girl's voice and it set Bobby on edge, "What can I do for you?"

"I was kind of hoping to speak to Ellen." Bobby replied.

There's an indelicate snort, "You and half of the rest of us."

"What?"

"No-one's heard anything from my mother for about a month," Jo said and there's no disguising the worry that threaded its way through the girl's voice, making her sound years younger and older at the same time.

"What happened?" Bobby asked, gruff.

"I wish I knew," Jo had a front of bravado up, her mother's steel showing, "She went off to visit some retired hunters, they'd just had a baby. Rang Ash when she was an hour away from there to check in and wasn't heard from since." There's a pause and Bobby ignored the choked off waver he could hear, "What did you need to talk to my mother about?"

"Just wanted to check in on Sam." Bobby answered.

There's a long pause on the other end of the line and dread seized Bobby's heart. "Sam?" Jo asked querulously, "You haven't heard?"

"He's dead?" Bobby asked.

There's a half-hysterical snort, "No," And Bobby could breathe again, "If only." Bobby paused and scowled at the phone, "He's… He's not exactly fighting on the side of angels anymore."

Bobby knew it was a mistake to let the boy out of his sights, "Gone off the rails a bit? Let me know where he is and I'll knock some sense into him."

There's a giggle, high and fine and sounding so very wrong, "Off the rails? Sam Winchester can't even see the fucking track anymore. He killed Jim Edgars, he's running around protecting demons, he's off his nut, gone completely. Most of the hunters here'd shoot him on sight."

'Oh god, Dean, I'm so sorry,' Bobby wasn't sure whether he said the words out loud but he didn't particularly care either, "They'd have to go through me first," Bobby growled down the phone, "I'll find Sam and I'll sort him out." Or kill him myself, Bobby didn't add, slamming the phone down on the girl on the other end. He drained both beers lined in front of him, giving the world the haze that did nothing to disguise the cold, hard truth staring him in the face.

Bobby idly ran a tally of the amount of alcohol in the house including anti-freeze for the cars and some rubbing alcohol for wounds and tried to work out if there's actually enough to make the world go away for a while. Before he has time to finish his calculations, he heard the excited barks of his dogs outside and then there's a scratching, light knock on the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: **The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings and notes: **Multiple character death. Dark fic.

**Rating: **PG-13 to R

**Pairing/Characters: **Mostly gen, some very mild Dean/Jo in future chapters.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.

**Chapter 7**

Alcohol is great. Sam was surprised that he never noticed before. Sure, he drank during college despite what Dean _goldyellowgreen _thought but he never quite drank to the level he did now. Beer made things better, smoother. It took the sharp edges off the world and it let him forget. _Redhazelbrown_. Sometimes it let him forget. Sometimes it's not enough and more and more, it's never enough.

Ellen is great though, really great. Really, really great. She gives Sam lots of beer and whiskey and let him fall asleep and let him talk. She gets it too. She gets that Dean _greenhazelgold_is gone and what it means. She gets that there's a hole and the hole won't be filled and that maybe it doesn't need to be filled, it can just go on being there, sucking Sam closer and closer until he disappears and then he won't have to dream anymore. _Goldyellowgold._

Sam hates. _Redblackgold_. He hates the werewolf that killed his brother, the werewolf that was his brother that killed his brother. Sam killed the werewolf though, the werewolf that killed his brother. He tells Ellen that but he doesn't tell her the werewolf had been his brother, Dean _greenhazelred_wouldn't want people to know that.

The alcohol wasn't enough. More and more the dreams slip through the fuzzy cracks, tendrils which nest in his brain. Sibilant whispers, the words indistinct now but becoming clearer and clearer every day. Ellen wasn't enough. The caring warmth had become smothering. Sam never had a mother, not really. He didn't need a mother, he had a Dean. Dean trumps mother any day of the week. Sam didn't have a Dean anymore _redblackbrown_ and he didn't want this mother, this demanding, annoying, insistent replica anymore.

Sam hates. He hates that the whispers are almost audible and that if he just strained a little, he could hear them. He hated the fact that he wanted to strain and listen despite the voice, sounding remarkably like Dean, telling him not to. He hated the fact that one night when the drink wasn't working and some idiot put Metallica on the jukebox despite the fact everyone knew not to and the purr of the cars outside sounded a little bit too much like the car he abandoned a hundred miles from where Dean died and two hundred others small things mean that he slipped and he listened.

He hates that the whispers promise him they can bring his brother back and he hates even more that he believes them.

Sam isn't stupid, anything but. He knows demons lie but he also knows that demons tell the truth when it will hurt the most and there is nothing Sam can think of that hurts more than the fact he could get his brother back and all he has to do is stop fighting what he's been fighting for two years, ever since he first dreamed of Jess pinned to the ceiling. _Redblondebrown___

Sam tried to shut out the voices again but the dam has burst now and trying to stick your finger back where the hole used to be is pointless. The voices are always there, a background hum to everything he does. Sometimes he thought he saw yellow eyes staring at him from the back of the road house but when it blinks, they are always back to normal once more. Sometimes during the day when he wanders the streets and searches for something he knows he'll not find, he sees familiar hazel-green eyes or a worn leather jacket or just a cocky grin on an otherwise unfamiliar face and it's like Dean _greengreengreen_ has died all over again.

Sam tried to talk to Ellen about it, tried to get her opinion on how far was too far but she just shut down on him. She just told him that Dean was gone and that there's nothing he can do and that's not what Sam was trying to ask. He pressed the point and she just told him that there had to be limit but she never told him what the limit is. There was no limit when his father gave up his own soul for Dean. There was no limit when Dean gave up the normal life for Sam. How can there be a limit now?

The voices kept getting louder and louder and eventually Sam asked Ellen for a hunt, something to get the blood rushing and pounding in his ears and drowning out the noise. Something to remind him of why they fight what they fight. Ellen hesitated but finally acceded, partnering him with some long in the tooth hunter. Ellen stated it was for this Jake's benefit but Sam knew that Ellen didn't trust him. He hadn't earned the Winchester reputation like his family did.

The hunt was beyond easy, the kind of hunt Sam could've done when he was eleven or twelve but it still took him a while to fit into the rhythm of it again, half the instruments in the orchestra were missing and the fill-in was out of tune. Nonetheless they took care of the ghost with ease. That's when Sam heard about another hunt. He actually had to persuade Jake to take it. Jake wasn't a hunter, not truly, not like Sam's family were hunters. He moves mechanically, thinks things through, pausing when the thing they were chasing grabs a little girl. Sam didn't pause and yes, the bullet clipped the side of the girl's face and she'd have a scar but at least she'd be alive to scar.

Jake had looked at him like he's the monster rather than recognising himself as the coward he was so maybe Sam didn't fire instantly when the monster went after Jake, maybe he wanted Jake to realise the true fear of being held in a monster's grip and why a scar is a heck of a lot better than being dead. He'd held the gun steady on the monster, never letting things get out of hand but letting Jake get clawed up a little. He knew the monster from Dad's journal, claws weren't poisonous, bite wouldn't do anything odd, it's all perfectly safe 'cos Sam was in control.

When things looked to be heading too far, Sam took the headshot and the monster was dead just like that. He smirked down at Jake and offered a hand to help him up. The coward, yellow-bellied _yellow-eyed_, man scooted back from Sam like he's dangerous and pushed himself up to his feet. Sam offered to patch up the guy's injuries which were barely even bleeding, Sam got worse from a training scuffle with Dean, but the man shook his head and ran for his car, leaving Sam with the job of clearing up the monster's body.

Which was just fine, the idiot probably didn't even carry a lighter. Hell, he'd probably use pepper. Sam laughed until he realised he was still waiting for Dean's laughter to join his and then he fell silent once more. He torched the monster as a funeral pyre for his brother who didn't get one. He had left Dean in the forest where he fell, let Dean stay free. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Dean was a ghost.

Sam returned the road house and he noticed Ellen and a few other hunters looking at him oddly. That idiot, Jake, had probably been telling tales, probably making up for his own cowardice by running down Sam. Well, that's just fine if people wanted to believe that, their opinions didn't matter to Sam anyway. Ellen assigned him solo hunts after that and Sam was proud of earning that. He hunted and let the blood drumming in his ears drown out the voices at least for a little while. The adrenalin high always faded though and after each hunt, Sam's mind plagued him with how the hunt should've gone, how Dean should've been by his side.

Sam stopped visiting the road house. He's sick of the stares and Ellen had just gotten worse and worse. She looked at him like he's some fragile thing that'd shatter if she said the wrong word. He just wanted her to treat him like she used to when he'd swagger in with Dean or rather Dean would swagger and Sam would try to pretend he wasn't with his brother. Sam knew he was half of a whole and he's half of nothing now but he wished it wasn't so clear to everyone else.

It'd been a month since Sam has been to the road house when the demon made an offer. Up to now, it had just been vague promises but this time the demon laid its cards on the line. Sam helped him out, just took down a few of the nasty things lurking out there which were interfering with the demon's plans and the demon would see what it could do about getting Dean back. It would take a lot of work, of course, but the demon didn't see why he couldn't get started now. It's so reasonable, such a small thing that Sam found himself saying yes before he even realised it was a question.

The job was so similar to what Sam was used to that part of him forgot he's doing it on behalf of the demon. There's a pack of werewolves hunting near Colorado, they are a bit too close to the university and the demon said it had a few assets there. It didn't tell more than that and Sam didn't ask, not yet, but he knew he would. He'd wait and bide his time and the demon would slip up and then Sam'd have him once and for all. He'd bring Dean back and the two of them together will end that fucker once and for all.

The pack showed the effect of harder times, lean and rangy. Sam took the first two out easily before the overgrown puppies even realised he was there. The last two were more difficult, they are older, wiser. Sam was patient though, he'd set the stage and now just had to wait for the players to tumble. The third was taken out with a bullet when it loped too far from safe ground. Sam got up close and personal with the last, wanting the visceral danger. He's not stupid enough to let it get in range to bite, just danced out of range and sliced away until the thing lay bleeding on the ground. He left it there, it won't bleed to death until it morphs back to a human in the morning and that's just desserts for what its kind did to Sam's brother.

The demon congratulated Sam when he reported back and Sam had snapped at it; he didn't do this for the demon, he did it for himself. The demon just happened to be the one with the information. The demon agreed, of course, and happened to mention a witch not far from where Sam was which was causing some problems. If Sam could just take care of them then the demon thought he could work even faster to bring Dean back. Sam agreed, after all, evil things needed killing. He's not doing anything that he wouldn't do anyway.

The first time the demon asked Sam to protect something instead of killing, he balked. No, he didn't just balk, he puts his foot right down. No way in hell, not ever, no. Fine, the demon said, but this thing happens to be spiritually powerful, could get your brother back quicker. Sam still said no, no way in hell. You wouldn't have to kill anything, the demon reassured, just get it away from the hunters. If he timed it right, he wouldn't even have to see the hunters.

The demon was right, Sam didn't see hide or hair of a hunter and he got the spirit form safely out of the house, bound it to a new object and delivered it up to the demon. The demon wasn't stupid enough to thank him for that, just gave him a new thing to kill and that's how the balance went. The demon asked him to protect, the demon asked him to kill and always he was that bit closer to getting Dean back. Just a few more jobs, that's all it will take, just a little further.

It all went to shit in Houston and if Sam hadn't been screaming, he would have laughed. Houston, we have a serious fucking problem. Sam had gotten another protection job, some incubus this time. Sam hated those slimy creeps. Succubi were one thing, men should be able to resist them but Incubi tended to prey on vulnerable women and that was just horrible.

He was supposed to meet it outside some housing estate for little old ladies except when Sam turned up, it wasn't there. Sam felt relief at first, maybe the hunters had got there before he did, nothing Sam could do about that, the demon would understand. Sam's eyes just had to spot the tracks though and he knew there was nothing he could do but follow. When Sam got there, four hunters were pinning the incubus from all angles and the damn thing was smiling, knowing Sam was on his way.

Sam recognised the hunter closest as one that'd hunted with his father and Dean before. The idiot greeted him like he was some kind of hero, come to help out, save the day, greeted him with a familiarity that he hadn't earned. Sam didn't know this guy from any other Joe. Sam swung the shotgun in his direction, warning him to stay back.

Sam didn't like the guy on sight. Called him 'Winchester' like somehow his surname made him public property, that all the tales told about his family gave them a right to ownership on him. The guy accused him of jumpy reflexes and that was the last straw, insulting Sam's skills on top of talking to him like an old friend. Sam told them to go, he warned them but the idiots didn't leave.

Sam even told them what he was doing there, wanted them to get a clue and just leave them alone. He didn't have time for this, his patience was wearing thin, any longer and he'd turn and plug the stupid incubus himself and then his chance to get Dean back would be lost and that's just not an option.

Sam tried to be reasonable, gave them a chance to leave but then the idiot tried to grab Sam's gun. You don't take a hunter's gun from him; any fool knows that so any fool deserves what he gets when Sam pulled the trigger. He's not a monster, he made it a clean shot. Sam had an escape route then and he took it, keeping the gun trained on the hunters in case they decided to be idiots like their former compatriot. Fortunately they don't and Sam gets away clean.

The demon apologised for Sam having to kill someone, that wasn't in his plan but he's proud of Sam for making that decision. He allowed Sam a glimpse of his brother, a shadowy nebulous figure. It doesn't resonate of Dean to Sam and Sam wondered whether killing someone meant he'd lost that connection to his brother and he wondered what he had to do to get it back but then, maybe it's worth losing the connection as long as it meant that Dean was alive.

By the time the demon asked Sam to kill for him, Sam was ready.

The first thought that crossed Dean's mind when he woke up was 'Bright'. This thought barely had time to surface before Dean lapsed back into unconsciousness. It obviously registered on some part of him because when Dean woke for the second time, his first thought was 'Still bright.' Of course, then he needed to try and work out when it was bright the first time and by the time he'd finished asking himself the question, he's too unconscious to answer it.

When Dean woke for the third time and thought 'Definitely still bright' he gave up on wondering when the first time had been and wondered instead whether he's in heaven. He dismissed this for two very good reasons: The first was that he's fairly sure you shouldn't fall in and out of consciousness when in heaven. Once you get up there, that's pretty much it. The second and, perhaps more important reason, is that he didn't believe heaven existed which kind of dismissed the possibility of ending up there. He didn't have time to consider where he might be before he's unconscious again.

The fourth time Dean woke up, he's getting more than a little sick of being unconscious. Sure, it seemed like a good idea in the past. After the monster of the week has slammed you into a wall a few times and you've kicked its ass and got Sammy out of danger and back to the motel, then it's a perfectly good time to fall unconscious, preferably making it to the bed first but there's a reason motel rooms have carpets. He would just like to have some moments of being conscious in between though.

The fifth time Dean woke up, he decided consciousness was definitely over-rated. This was mainly because the numbness was starting to wear off and other sensations were creeping in. The chief among these was Dean's old friend, Pain. He and Pain usually have a good agreement. Dean acknowledges that Pain exists and Pain promises not to be too much of a bother until Dean was in the aforementioned nose-dive worthy motel room. Pain has apparently decided the deal includes wherever the hell it is Dean is. From the uncomfortable sensation in his throat and other parts of his anatomy, he had to guess hospital.

When Dean woke up again and there's a scent in the air like perfume and a soft voice humming a tune which Dean was on the verge of recognising. There's someone female close and by the way her voice resonates, she's probably leaning right over him. Dean cursed his uncooperative eyes that won't open. He tried to open his mouth to make some compliment but the damn tube was still in the way and this time, it's annoying. The weight of it hit the gag reflex at the back of his throat and he felt his throat clench and suddenly it seemed like he couldn't breathe and he's trying so hard to but the tube is in the way.

There's a cool hand on his forehead and a voice telling him to calm down and that it's alright which is fine for her to say, she's not the one choking on a tube stuffed down her throat. Another voice joined in, male this time, the deep rumble of a voice that echoed out of his belly rather than his vocal cords. There's a hand on his cheek, calloused thick fingers and then the stinging of tape being pulled away. "Breathe out," The voice instructed which'd be just fine if Dean actually had any oxygen left in his body to exhale. He went through the motions and the tube was pulled out so he used the opportunity to pull deep gulps of air into his lungs.

Spots danced on the surface of his closed eyelids and he can feel himself sinking back towards sleep. "Welcome back to the world of the living," The light feminine voice said and he's not sure if he believes her.

Memory returned slowly, in dribs and drabs that left Dean more confused than before. Dean remembered the hunt they were on, werewolves in Saragon, Colorado. He remembered sneaking through the woods on the trail of the three victims turned wolf. He remembered reaching the clearing and trying to figure out what Sam was saying about eyes 'cos as far as Dean could tell, the guy had garden-variety brown eyes. Then there's a whole expanse of nothing, like someone flipped a switch and shut his brain down. Dean's not worried about that. He can feel the tickling sensation at the back of his mind that says his memory is trying to get back through and he just has to give it time and it'd be back.

The memory wasn't what he was missing most. The problem was that when the doctor peels that goddamn tape from Dean's eyes and his eyelids finally cooperate enough to crank open and reveal the half-lit hospital room, his brother was nowhere to be seen. He'd been suspicious from the absence of his brother's voice but had held onto hope that maybe Sam was just slumped in a chair asleep, looking like some over-stretched rag doll that the nurses didn't want to wake but the chair by his bed is empty.

He tried asking one of the nurses but apparently his mouth was being uncooperative even without the tube as the only noises he could make were long drawn out vowel sounds despite his increasing efforts. Finally humiliated he settled back on the bed and didn't attempt to speak for another week.

When it became clear to the doctors that their patient was apparently attached to awake for the time-being, they sent in a kind-faced white-haired doctor to explain his condition to him. Dean listened carefully, trying to match what the doctor said to what he remembered and to what he knew about first aid. Gun-shot wound which just missed the heart. Complications of some sort of venom resulting in a Stroke. The doctors were sure the only reason he survived the Stroke was because the snake venom acted as an anti-coagulant. The irony of the venom being the cure of its own effects wasn't lost on Dean. Coma for two months.

The last at least explained why Dean's heavy limbs were refusing to cooperate with his efforts to move them. They hadn't dared to move his limbs with the usual exercises they would for coma patients in case it exacerbated the unknown venom circulating. It was only after the first month when tests showed the last traces of venom were gone that they started and by then, Dean had lost a lot of muscle definition, not to mention a lot of weight.

The doctors told him he should be dead. Dean knew that already and knew it wasn't for the first time. They'd told him about the fact he'd been found by some guy walking his dog in some local woods, close to death, that they'd lost him about four or five times on the operating table and twice more in recovery. They'd told him no-one had truly expected him to wake up until he did.

Extensive physical therapy apparently meant his prognosis was good. Dean didn't want to know if that meant 'might be able to walk' good or 'would be back to kick-ass demon hunter' good. The nerve damage from the venom wasn't too extensive and might just lead to lessened sensation on certain patches of his body and lowered pain response. Dean could get down with that!

Eventually the various medical terms stopped being words and began to blend together in a long stream that Dean floated in, waiting for anything important. He heard the words 'insurance' and kept his expression deliberately unaware. He could find out whether his wallet was there and what insurance card he'd had on him at the time later. They didn't bother asking his name, Dean's mouth still refused to cooperate with his brain and he was fairly sure that he didn't want to be known as 'Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuur-nuff' for the foreseeable future.

When Dean met his new physical therapist, it was love at first sight. She was perky, blonde and had curves in all the right places. This was rather unfortunate seeing as by the end of the first session, Dean was fairly sure she was a demon sent from hell just to torture him. Dean hated being helpless but he had to accept the fact that his limbs weren't responding to him at the moment, the muscles too weak.

His speech therapist must have made a deal with the Crossroads demon for patience. She was tall, dark haired and rather plain but she had the patience of a saint as she sat there, going over the various sounds that Dean's mouth just wouldn't make. When Dean's mouth refused to acknowledge the existence of the letter T for the thirty third time in a row and Dean tried to mash his fist into the bed and only succeeded in jerking it a millimetre, she just smiled at him, crooked teeth showing, and asked him for the thirty fourth.

Fortunately Dean improved fast, driving himself even harder than his therapists could. There was only so fast that muscle function could return but Dean felt his strength building every day as he progressed onto the walking bars, supported either side by a couple of aides who were even taller than Sam. Speech being easier and easier until Dean could form sentences without too much effort though he'd still slur if he didn't focus and an annoying stutter liked to creep in when he tried to go faster than his brain could deal with yet. The therapist assured him that would go away in time.

Both therapists kept telling Dean that it helped to have something to focus on. Dean figured that 'Where the hell has my brother got to?' was something fairly good to focus on. He'd managed to express himself clearly to one of the Doctors using a complicated game of charades mixed with a few verbalisations. The Doctor said the woods had been searched and the police would want to talk to him about four bodies discovered there once he was recovered but none of them fit Sam's description.

When the police came to talk, Dean just played the innocent victim, aided by his multiple injuries. Last he heard, he was reported as the one survivor of a vicious serial killer. That left him no closer to discovering his brother's whereabouts so Dean just focused on recovering as fast as possible so he could get out there and smack his brother for the disappearing act.

In fact, everything was looking pretty great until the first seizure hit. The doctors told him afterwards that it could be a complication with strokes, that it affected about ten percent. Dean thought 'that's just fucking marvellous for you but couldn't you have given me some warning that I was about to lose all control of my limbs'. The next day anti-seizure medication was added to the drugs already coursing through Dean.

Dean endured four months of hospitalisation before he finally had enough, decided he was as well as he was going to get and signed himself out AMA. Dean knew some god must have been smiling on him because the card in his wallet had been the one with the good insurance on though he was fairly sure it was maxed out by now. The excess he paid on one of his credit cards and promptly ditched both credit card and insurance card in the hospital bin as he left.

Dean checked himself into a motel room close to the hospital, wanting to stay close in case of a relapse which the nurses and doctors had spoken to him about when he told them he was leaving. He kept up the exercises on his own, glad that he only had a limp in his right leg and some stiffness on his right arm to show for the months of inactivity and the stroke. He hadn't had any seizures since the first but he kept an eagle eye on his medication, making sure he never got close to empty.

The day before he left the town, he raided a local pharmacy, taking just enough to keep him supplied for a year or so. He then caught the next bus heading to where he wanted to be. His memory still remained piece-meal, just flashes of images peppered with the sound of a gunshot and the lingering feeling that whatever he'd forgotten was because he didn't want to remember.

The bus dropped him off in the centre of town and he got a taxi to the yard, already feeling over-strained by the long journey. The dogs recognised him right off the bat and scampered up, twisting and butting with familiarity against his legs which sent him careering unsteadily to his knees. They backed off, perplexed canine eyes regarding him as he pushed himself back up onto his feet. They circled more cautiously around him as he reached the door, sagging against the frame as he tiredly knocked on the door.

He was greeted by a tightly held shotgun and a familiar face whose eyes widened in shock as they caught sight of him and for a moment, he saw a finger tighten on the trigger. Dean wondered whether he was glad or upset when the finger loosened. Dean pushed himself off the frame, trying to stand up mostly straight. "Hey B-Bobby," He forced out and then consciousness fled once again and he tumbled forwards into familiar arms.

**A/N:** come on, you didn't really think I would've killed off Dean this early, did you? I'd have to hand in my DeanGirl badge.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: **The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings and notes: **Multiple character death. Dark fic.

**Rating: **PG-13 to R

**Pairing/Characters: **Mostly gen, some very mild Dean/Jo in future chapters.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.

**Chapter 8**

**A/N: **This chapter was intended to be Dean PoV however before I could start writing, Bobby was there standing in front of me with his arms crossed saying 'Dean don't feel like talking' and well, I'm not about to argue with Bobby here. So Bobby did the talking instead. (Should I be worried that my muse likes taking on the form of a 40-ish year old trucker?

Apologies for the long wait on this. Had a few family things, a trip to meet friends and an addiction to Picross on the DS to deal with. All of which combined to make me not in the mood to post. Sorry! I hope this chapter is worth the wait and I promise posting schedule should be back to normal now.

Also, there is quite a lot of medical stuff in this chapter relating to Dean's recovery. I claim no medical expertise beyond what I can google though I tried to make it realistic if not completely accurate. Hopefully it won't pull anyone with superior medical knowledge out of the story too much.

* * *

Bobby Singer had always had good instincts. This was a very good thing when his body reached out to grab and steady the man currently plunging towards him while his brain was still running in confused circles. As it was he almost ended up lobbing Dean backwards when the weight he caught turned out to be far lighter than what he braced for.

As he looked down at the slack face lolling against his bracing arms, he searched for anything amiss, anything that indicated this wasn't really Dean Winchester. The boy was certainly a lot thinner than Bobby recalled and paler too but other than that, he looked exactly like the boy Bobby recalled.

Bobby was anything but stupid though. He hoisted the still form up in his arms and carried it towards his battered couch, laying it out maybe a bit more carefully than he would any other potential demon. The next move was to pull the couch out from the wall a little, enough that Bobby could get a ladder up to the ceiling and draw a Key of Solomon centred on the couch. Then Bobby packed away the ladder, sat at the table nursing a beer and waited.

Sixty long minutes ticked by and then another thirteen more before the figure on the couch started to stir. Long eyelashes fluttered over closed eyes and then finally cracked open, squinting even at the dim light in Bobby's cabin. Bobby raised a beer in a welcoming gesture, keeping his expression calm like he wasn't expecting anything to be wrong, "Hey there, Dean. Quite an entrance."

Dean tilted his head in Bobby's direction, blinking several times as sleep-borne confusion whisked about his face. He pushed himself up awkwardly with his left arm and then twisted to sit up straight on the couch, arms stretching out briefly, "Hey Bobby." He said, his voice sluggish and a little slurred, Bobby presumed from sleep, "W-when d'I get here?"

"About an hour ago, give or take." Bobby stated, heading over to the fridge and pulling out one of his special spiked beers and popping it down on the table, "Want a beer?"

"Hell yeah," Dean said, still slurry but with his customary enthusiasm. He pushed himself up off the couch and Bobby noticed he was again favouring his left side. When he started walking over, there was a distinct halting drag to step, a limp in the right leg that he hadn't smoothed around yet. When he walked outside of the circle of the Key of Solomon without even a sign of a flinch, Bobby breathed out a sigh of relief.

Dean noticed that with a puzzled frown and then slowly twisted, bringing his eyes upwards. He wasn't slow, that boy. He looked back and there's a distinct hurt look in his face but he didn't speak for a long moment, just stood there, his jaw working slightly. "Yah," He frowned, closed his eyes and pursed his face in concentration, "You thought I was a demon?"

That was when Bobby realised there was something more than just sleep blurring his speech and he pushed out a chair for the boy to sit to make it easier, "You've been declared dead for almost seven months. What was I supposed to think?"

Dean lowered himself uneasily to the seat and grabbed the beer with his left hand. Usually that'd be a cause for alarm for Bobby, one dead giveaway for demonic possession was the person switching their handedness, but from the way Dean had been acting, he knew there was something a little less supernatural and a bit more medical wrong, "Was in the hospital," The words were clipped this time, the syllables separated and enunciated.

"For seven months?" Bobby asks, unable to keep the scepticism out of his voice. A Winchester staying in one place for longer than a month was a cause for alarm, staying in hospital without going spare for seven months was a sign of the apocalypse. The joke tasted sour in Bobby's mind.

"Di'n zac.. zach…" Dean slammed the bottle down on the table, frustration clear on his face, "Di'n have much of a choice." He took a swig to reward himself for managing to get a sentence out. The next word was said with relative ease but that was no great surprise to Bobby, "Sam?"

Bobby never thought such a loaded question could be made out of one word, "Sam's alive." Bobby replied, figuring anything else might be a bit too much for the man opposite him at the moment, "He turned up at the road house, told Ellen a werewolf had got you."

"'Member we were hunting a werewolf." Dean lifted his right hand up a little and then apparently thought better as he raised his left instead and rubbed at his forehead, "Sam got two but there was a three.. a third." Dean sagged back in the chair, taking a long gulp from the beer, "Don't 'member next."

Bobby nodded. Given Dean's condition that was hardly a surprise, "So, what are your injuries?"

Dean looked hesitant and rubbed his fingernail against the label on the bottle, peeling it off, a nervous habit Bobby swore the boy picked up off him, one of his few tells. Bobby liked to think he had a hand in the boys' poker training, God knows John's poker face was worse than awful, but right now, every single one of Dean's tells were showing, signs that he's edging beyond nervous. Bobby'd liked to reassure him, tell him to tell it when he's ready but this wasn't a happy bunny rabbits and flowers world they lived in so instead Bobby just leaned back and tapped his finger in an increasing tempo, knowing that would drive Dean to tell him faster.

"Had a stroke," Dean blurted out and whatever Bobby was expecting, it wasn't that as he half-chokes on the mouthful of beer he'd taken, "Right side don't work as good. Can't speak as good." Dean shrugs both shoulders, "Something bit me. Not wolf." He said, so quickly that the words blurred together a little and he had to pause afterwards to focus. It was almost painful for Bobby to see how much the boy had to concentrate just to speak, "Had venom. Messed me up."

Bobby Singer was unflappable, even if sometimes he had to remind himself that, "I see. Sounds like a snake demon to me. Let me have a look at the bite mark." He could feel the weight of Dean's eyes on him, waiting for him to back away or look pitying or do anything which would have the boy closing up faster than a brothel at the sound of sirens. Bobby wasn't going to give Dean the chance to shrug this off as nothing.

Dean gave a nod which seemed to be as much about the temporary relief of aching neck muscles as it is about agreement and Bobby stood from his chair and stood behind Dean. Dean didn't even make a basic objection when Bobby tugged his jacket off, draping it over the back of the chair and then lifted the t-shirt off.

Bobby noticed the bite mark, it's hard not to. The indentation of teeth looked human, not elongated like werewolves would tend to be, and there was a slight curve in the entry wound at the incisors which spoke of hollow fangs rather than brute canines. The bite mark only drew his attention for a moment though when the cornucopia of scars across the rest of Dean's back was revealed. Several white scars criss-crossed most of his flesh, some thick speaking of deep injuries and flanked by tiny white pocks, the last remainder of stitches.

Bobby didn't give Dean a chance to object before he pushed Dean back against the back of the chair and took a look at his chest. There were similar scar lines etched across his chest and belly too along with the white circle where he knew Sam had shot him while possessed. There were still red, healing scars that Bobby recognised as surgical scars and there, close to his heart, was another bullet hole, this one still a dark healing red.

Bobby brought one finger beneath Dean's chin and brought the Winchester's face up to his, "Were you going to mention that?" He didn't need to give any indication of what he was talking about, he knew that Dean would know.

Dean shrugs lopsidedly, "Di'n seem important."

Bobby is sure that somewhere out there is a list of what a Winchester does and doesn't find important and he's equally sure that anyone who isn't a Winchester seeing that list will have their mind irrevocably destroyed by the overall insanity of its contents, "So you were bitten, poisoned, shot and had a stroke. Glad to know you kept yourself busy while you were gone."

"You know me," Dean said with a flash of the old smile, "Idle hands and all that." Bobby can almost pretend he doesn't hear the stutters. "Call Sam?" He asks after a few moments of silence.

"That might be difficult," Bobby started to say but then squeezing Dean's good shoulder when he saw the look of panic, "Sam is fine, I'm sure." For only certain values of fine, "I just don't have contact details for him at the moment."

Dean scowled up at the older hunter, "You s-s-s," He winced and thumped himself back against the chair, closing his mouth and just breathing through his nose for a long moment before attempting to talk against, "You s'posed to keep eye out. If I was gone."

Bobby really didn't think this was a good time to go into the whole 'Well, I didn't and now your brother is quite possibly evil.' The fact that Dean was already tilted to one side and his eyes sliding towards closed were a good indication that he was too tired to deal with, either that or an indication that feeling a recent far-too-skinny invalid a beer is probably not the best idea. There's a reason no-one had even given him the nickname 'Nurse Bobby.' "Well, you weren't really gone, were you?" There's times that Bobby's reputation for omniscience comes in handy, "How about we get you set up in the spare room and hash this out later?"

"M'not four." Dean said and Bobby saw him fight off a yawn.

"Just four minutes away from asleep." Bobby quipped though he knew it was below his usual standard, "How 'bout we make a deal?" Dean looked up, blinking curious wide green eyes which made him look far too young, "I won't baby you and you don't make me need to."

Dean paused and puzzled that one over before looking up to Bobby and trying to work out if he was pulling a fast one. Finally assure that he wasn't, Dean nodded his assent, "Guess that means I go sleep?" He pushed himself up a little unsteadily onto his feet and Bobby resolved to get some food into the boy as soon as possible, "Spare free?"

Bobby just nodded and tried not to stare as Dean limped his way from the table and into the spare room. He didn't even allow himself a breath of relief when the door closed, suspecting the younger hunter would be listening out for just that sort of sign. Instead he stood from the table and put the empty beer bottles into the trash before heading out to one of the cars he'd recently declared unsalvageable. By the end of an hour, there was nothing left of it but a pile of metal.

* * *

Bobby didn't get many visitors. Sure, the odd hunter would stop off to get information or for Bobby's rough-handed healing but they'd rarely stay overnight. When the Winchester boys were younger, John used to drop them off at his a few times, usually when he thought Pastor Jim had reached his exasperated limit of what he could cope with. Then there was the female company but they didn't tend to stay the night either.

So when Bobby woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of muffled cries punctuated by the occasional whimper, his first thought was that one of the damn dogs had gotten in. His second thought was that a damn werewolf had gotten in. It took a while for his brain to kickstart itself and he remembered his new housemate and rapidly stomped out of his room and into the spare, forgetting all about his promise not to baby.

Dean was lying on the edge of the bed looking about two seconds from toppling off the edge, the sheets and blankets were snarled around him. Night sweat stood out on his pale brow and even in the dim light, Bobby could see the rapid shifting of eyes beneath closed lids that spoke of nightmares.

Now Bobby is a damn fine hunter, pretty much the best around but his knowledge came to a grinding halt when it came to people. He could deal with them, sure, and talk to them most of the time but the correct procedure for waking someone up from a nightmare was just never something Bobby had to learn so he just barked, "Dean! Wake up!" and waited for a response.

The response comes in the form of a startled 'Huh' and then a loud thump as the Winchester finally tumbled off the bed though the curl of blankets lead to his right leg remaining trapped on the bed. That alone is enough to provoke a pained groan and Bobby strode to the bed and hurriedly freed the leg, allowing it to join the rest of Dean Winchester flat on the floor.

When Dean didn't make any particular effort to get up beyond a few muscle movements which were probably more down to the pain in his leg than ambulatory effort, Bobby frowned, "You need a hand up?"

"No," came the swift response, "Jus' need minute. Will be out in a minute." The words were said to the floor and Bobby knew a dismissal when he heard one. He left the room, keeping the door ajar so he could at least hear what's going on in there. He heard a few thumping noises and the drag of blankets and then obviously Dean made it to the door because it clicked properly shut and all noise was blocked.

There wasn't a hunting matter in the world that Bobby couldn't at least posit a suggestion on but he realised rapidly that he was in way over his head here. Injured Winchesters were a whole new level of tricky. You can't shoot them with rock salt or burn them or recite a Latin chant and hope they go away. Well, you can but it's almost certainly not the right way to deal with the situation. He ran through a list of contacts in his head, trying to think of anyone to contact who won't seem like a complete betrayal.

Jo Harvelle at the roadhouse is one possibility but Bobby had a feeling Dean liked having the rookie hunter look up to him and wouldn't want her seeing him looking three shades of hell. Pastor Jim would be the perfect person if he wasn't so inconveniently dead. Jefferson was a nutcase who'd probably try to dose Dean with two dozen 'herbal' remedies. Missouri Moseley was a definite possibility, she had a good habit of kicking people out of whatever funk they'd gotten themselves into but on the other hand, the mood Dean was in, Bobby doubted he'd want a psychic within a five mile radius of him. Who he really needed was Sammy but he's not entirely sure that Sammy even existed anymore.

Dean emerged from the bedroom after a long while and Bobby could see him making an effort to stifle his limp though all it did was make it more pronounced and it's very slow going to the table. Dean kept silent the whole way, the effort to walk over-ruling the effort needed to talk and Bobby didn't miss the relieved expression when he can finally sink down at the kitchen table.

Bobby stood almost as soon as Dean sat, heading towards the kitchen, "Fry up good with you?" Dean just grunted which Bobby took as a yes and he fetched the ingredients out of the fridge. The bacon is still good but he tossed the half-open pack of sausages into the trash. He switched on the gas and popped a lump of lard into the bottom of the frying pan, waiting for it to sizzle before laying on the bacon and turning away from the cooker to slice up some bread, "Sleep well?"

He almost missed Dean's shrug but caught the verbal "Think so."

"Think so?" Bobby quizzed, pausing to push the bacon around a bit in the pan, "You don't remember?"

"Think so." Dean repeated as he idly pushed a piece of paper across the table with his left hand. Bobby knew he needs to have a work with him about favouring his left side that much but it's a talk for another time.

"You looked like you were having a nightmare when I came in." Bobby said, cracking a couple of eggs into the pan. He never had patience for the whole separating out the food nonsense, it all tasted the same in the end.

"Think so." Dean said and Bobby started to wonder if Dean's mental needle had gotten jammed.

"Any idea what about?" Bobby pushed, sticking the bread into the toaster and slamming the lever down.

There's a long silence apart from the swish of the paper being pushed across the table until Dean spoke again, "What I don't 'member. S'there, just not there." Bobby didn't need to hear the cracking note in the middle of the sentence to sense Dean's frustration.

"It'll come," He said because it seemed like the right thing to say, not necessary because he believed it. More than that, he was worried about what happens when it goes because given all Dean's injuries, Bobby was fairly sure there was a damn good reason Dean had forgotten and he had a bad feeling that reason was all too pertinent to the bullet hole.

Dean apparently had his bullshit detecting hat on as he looked up to glare at Bobby from beneath half-closed eyes, "Don't s-s-s- fuck!" He exclaimed, beating his good hand against the table and Bobby had to look away as Dean's face twitched in his attempts to get the words out. In the end he just gave up with another aggravated "Fuck."

Bobby served the breakfast up onto two plates, heaping Dean's up a little more generously than his own but carefully not enough to be noticeable. He poured a couple of mugs of coffee and then juggled the lot over to the table, almost spilling the coffees along the way. He thumped the plate and mug down in front of Dean and then placed his own and got on with the matter of eating, trying not to notice the stretching silence.

Dean at least didn't seem to be adding loss of appetite to his current list of ailments as he dug into the plate of food like it was going out of fashion. He paused, one fork full of mashed egg and bacon and said clearly, "Sugar coat. Don't sugar coat shit." And then he stuffed the fork into his mouth and continued eating like he hadn't said anything.

Bobby wasn't sure whether he was supposed to pretend the words hadn't happen or pretend that they'd happened five minutes ago and that Dean had never had any difficulties. Bobby opted for answering, "I'm not sugar-coating it, Dean. The fact you are having nightmares is a good sign." Dean paused, a piece of bacon sticking out the corner of his mouth to shoot Bobby a disbelieving look, "It means your brain is trying to piece together the information. What do you remember?"

"One plus one is two. Two plus two is four." Dean mocked. Bobby flicked a piece of bacon at Dean and saw the hunter's right hand flick up to try and catch it mid-air but the moment was too slow and the bacon went sailing by. Dean's eyes tracked it as it landed on the floor and then Dean's loaded fork was lowered to the plate and Dean sullenly watched his plate. "Trees," Dean said in such a monotone that Bobby wondered for a moment whether John's eldest had taken to just spouting random words now, "Running. A third man. Normal eyes. Sam shot him. Then.." Dean frowned and rubbed at his head as if trying to coax the memories that wouldn't manifest, "Then something else."

Bobby mulled that over, "Normal eyes? What does that mean?"

"Sam had a vision. All had gold eyes and Sam said t'other two in forest had gold eyes but the third didn't."

Bobby looked troubled, "And Sam still shot him?" If Sam had been heading towards the darkness even before Dean's 'death' then they could be in a lot more trouble than just a grief-stricken brother.

"Sam had a vision." Dean half-shrugged as if that explained everything, "Guy ran at me, Sam reacted." Dean's level angry gaze offered the challenge that his uncooperative mouth couldn't manage.

"Dean," Bobby started to say and then had to pause for a long breath, "Look, after you were gone, there's been a few rumours about Sam."

"He alright?" Dean's expression instantly morphed into worry.

"He is fine," Bobby stated, knowing that Dean would pick up the emphasis on He.

"Who isn't?" Dean asked.

"Another hunter. Edgars."

Dean frowned, "We hunted with Edgars 'fore. When Sam at Stanford. 'Minded me of Sam. What happened?"

"He and his group were out after an Incubus, they tracked it down but Sam stepped out of the woods and said he was protecting it. When Edgars tried to take Sam's gun, Sam shot him." Bobby let the words force themselves out, not stopping even for breath until the story was done.

Dean blinked and shook his head, pushing the chair backwards, "No. Not Sam. Shapeshifter." The slur became more and more pronounced as Dean's words rushed over each other, "Or glamour or something else. Not Sam."

"I didn't want to believe it either. Hell, Jo only told me about it shortly before you got here. I rang her while you were asleep and apparently it's not the only incident," Bobby reached into the fridge and pulled out a couple of beers, sure it was early but this wasn't the kind of conversation that could be had on coffee, "More and more hunters have been going missing, not just Ellen, and demonic incidents are up. I'm not saying this is all to do with Sam, mind, just that whatever is going on, the darkness is definitely up to something."

Dean took the beer and just held it for a while, minute tremors running through his hand and twitching the bottle, "Find Sam," He snapped out the words, "Get truth. Sort this." Dean rammed his finger into the table to emphasise his point.

"I've been trying to think of how to do that." Bobby said.

"Cell phone," Dean said and Bobby saw him reach towards his pocket, probably for a cell phone that wasn't there. Dean didn't currently seem to own anything except the clothes he'd walked in with, an empty-looking wallet and a bag full of enough medicines to put the local pharmacy to shame.

"Don't know the number of Sam's cell," Bobby admitted before the thought about medicines drifted back to his mind, he hadn't seen Dean take anything yet that morning, "You need any of your pills?"

Dean took a defiant swig of beer and then paused, "Just one. Bottle marked Dilantin."

Bobby headed over to where he's dropped Dean's bag and fished through the bottle until he found the one he was looking for and tipped out one of the contents, a small liquid capsule, "Should you be drinking with these?"

"No," Dean admitted as he closed a hand tighter around the bottle but didn't lift it for another drink. Instead he shifted up from the clear breakfast plates and poured himself a glass of water, holding a hand out for the pill. He tossed the capsule back and followed it with the water before edging back to the table and sitting.

Bobby glanced at the label before putting it back into the bag, "What are they for anyway?" Bobby thought he knew most of the common or garden medicines that hunters tended to need but he didn't recognise that one.

"Seizures," Dean quietly admitted and Bobby winced, someone up there was having a good laugh at the Winchester's expense and Bobby was beginning to wonder if rock salt would work on angels.

"Man, you're fucked up," The words slipped out before Bobby could stop them and he stiffened in place, waiting for the boy's reaction.

To his shock, Dean just began to laugh and Bobby turned his head in shock. Tears rolled down Dean's face but he was laughing as hard as his body would allow him, "Thanks Bobby," He said when the laughter subsided, "'bout time someone said the damn truth."

Bobby snorted. Figures that he could only say the right thing by saying the wrong one, "Doesn't mean you'll stay fucked up."

Dean just shrugged again and Bobby was beginning to hate that gesture, "Doc said most stroke victims," And Dean snorted at the words, "tend to show recovery up to six months then," Dean splayed his fingers, "That's it. Been seven."

"But you aren't exactly most stroke victims," Bobby countered, "And you were in a coma for two of them so that shouldn't count. Got a month to get your ass in gear."

"Wha's the point?" Dean asked, pushing the beer bottle back and forth in his hand, "Not gonna be able to hunt. Not when I can start twitching like a puppet."

"I'd hunt with you," Bobby said and was a little surprised to find it was the truth, "You'd need to get yourself back into shape first. You are too damn skinny, you aren't exercising your right side enough and don't get me even started on the haircut."

Dean began raising his left hand and then blinked owlishly at Bobby and cautiously raised his right instead, running it back through his grown-out hair, "Get me scissors." He demanded.

Bobby smirked, should've known that'd bother the boy most, it also gave him ammunition, "Nope. You've got to earn the scissors back. Once you start looking like you could hold your own in a stiff breeze, let alone a hunt, then I'll think about it."

Dean glared, "Gimme. Damn. Scissors."

"It's not like you could even cut your own hair at the moment," Bobby pointed out, "So you are going to need to rely on me for a bit." Bobby glanced at the ashes of a hunter currently regarding him and nodded, "I think the first thing will be getting you some new clothes. You are really beginning to stink."


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: **The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer: **Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings and notes**: Multiple character death. Dark fic.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.

**Author's notes: **Off to Cambridge folk festival this weekend so I may be slow (big surprise) to reply to reviews, there are nonetheless always appreciated and usually make me bounce somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling!

**Chapter 9**

It was on the fourth day of stroke rehabilitation Bobby Singer-style that Dean finally recalled all the details of his accident. They'd been on a mile run, or a mile stagger as Dean referred to it, and were just coming back round to the yard. Adrenalin ran thick through Dean, interlaced with exhaustion and he dropped to the couch just inside the door, only stirring when Bobby pressed a glass of cold water into his hand.

His eyes slid shut though he was still awake and he listened to the noise of Bobby pattering about the kitchen, reaching things out of cupboards in preparation for lunch. It was when the slamming of a cupboard resounded eerily like a gun shot that memory curled its hands around Dean's mind and tugged. All at once, he was back in the forest, face splattered damp with the blood spray from the werewolf Sam had just killed.

He remembered opening his mouth to say something reassuring, to tell his little brother it wasn't his fault but then he'd felt himself yanked backwards and his arms pulled behind his back. He'd wanted to yell at Sam to run but the other two kept talking above him until there was a searing pain as the man bit into his neck that was followed by a dizzying spin that numbed him. He heard the crack of the gun shot as his brother took out the man and then felt himself tumble backwards, unable to persuade his legs to keep standing.

He recalled the desperation on his brother's face as it had blurred and wavered above him. He remembered the quiet apology following by the thundering crack of a gun shot and then everything going black until two months later in a hospital room.

Dean wasn't aware that he was hyperventilating until he felt a brown paper bag pressed against his mouth and the sturdy support of Bobby at his side, rubbing his arm and trying to pace his breathing. Black spots speckled Dean's vision and for a moment, he wondered if it'd be gentler just to let it all go and not have to worry about things but Dean wasn't a coward so he listened and he calmed his breathing and he wished he could let the world just go away.

He felt the paper bag lifted away and the absence of Bobby's calming movements but it was only for a moment before he felt strong hands lifting him back up to a seated position and propping him against the back of the couch.

"Gonna tell me what that was about?" Bobby's voice rumbled, "'cos I thought you were having a damn seizure at first. Nearly worried my hair grey."

"Your hair's 'ready grey," Dean slurred out, too tired to make the effort as the speech therapist had taught him to enunciate and shape words once more. It's not like Bobby had perfect elocution either.

"Greyer," Bobby corrected himself, "And?" He prompted when Dean didn't automatically continue.

Dean weighed over the pros and cons of telling Bobby. It wasn't like Sam had actually shot him, he'd obviously thought Dean was a werewolf despite the fact Dean was fairly sure his eyes hadn't been gold. There'd been a fair few full moons during Dean's long stay in hospital and he's sure the doctors would have listed on his chart something important like 'Sometimes becomes a wolf'. It was fairly obvious it was probably what he'd thought he'd had to do which had set Sam on this downward slide and Dean was kinda hoping that ringing up and saying, "Hey, I'm alive," would fix everything.

Of course the golden rule of Winchesters was that nothing was ever easy.

"Dean?" Bobby's low voice sounded worried and Dean realised he'd been silent for a while now.

"Sam shot me," He said, hating how heavy the words sounded on his tongue.

"Oh," Bobby said matter-of-factly and then a little more surprised, "Oh!"

Dean opened his eyes then and regarded Bobby a little dazedly, "You knew."

"I suspected," Bobby clarified, "There was only so many ways you could have got shot between what you remembered and when you were found."

"Guess I'm lucky Sam can't aim worth shit. Will need to talk t'him 'bout it." Dean smirked, "Think he thought I was a wolf."

"Easy mistake to make," Bobby joked, hearing an almost audible thump as the joke fell flat, "It's just, well, Sam has never exactly been the 'Shoot first, ask questions later' type, has he? Especially not when it comes to you. He's more the 'Ask questions, ask questions, ask questions, hey, what's this gun thing doing here?' type."

"S'good hunter!" Dean defended his brother voraciously before confessing, "S'my fault," Dean stated, feeling the heavy weight of blame on his chest, "I tol' him if I'd got bit, I'd wanted him to shoot me. He jus' did what I wanted. This is all my fault." He felt an arm around his shoulder as he was tugged into a hug or rather a sort of hug. It was a hug done by someone who had never really had to do hugs before which left Dean feeling mostly squashed but a little comforted as well.

"This is not your damn fault," Bobby released Dean almost as soon as he'd grabbed him, looking a little awkward, "You Winchesters have enough to deal with without taking the weight of the rest of the world onto your shoulders. I put a call out so that if anyone spots Sammy, they'll let me know and we can go find him and sort this all out. You need to concentrate on getting yourself back into shape instead of worrying all the time about your brother."

Dean wanted to protest that worrying was in the Winchester job description but the exhaustion of the run and its aftermath took their toll and he found himself sagging against the back of the couch, slowly sliding downwards. Rough hands lifted his legs up and placed a blanket over him, "Last thing I do. Promised him." Dean mumbles, unsure of who he was talking to but knowing he needed to get the words out before he finally fell asleep.

* * *

It was another two months before they received any word of Sam and it turned out to be mostly luck. Bobby and Dean were just sitting down to one of Bobby's latest concoctions. He'd taken to home cooking since Dean had been staying with him and Dean was wishing he'd stuck to takeaway pizzas and microwave meals like before. Today's meal looked like Bobby had just taken whatever wasn't past its use-by-date in the fridge, put it into water and called it stew and Dean had a horrible feeling it would taste like that too.

When the phone rang, Dean instinctively reached towards it, wanting any excuse not to have to eat the bowl of 'food' in front of him but Bobby shot him a quelling look and went for the phone instead. The two hunters had agreed that until Dean was better, they wouldn't let the rest of the hunting community know he was alive. With all the suspicion over Sam at the moment, it wouldn't do well to have the other brother 'come back from the dead' even if he did it via entirely natural means.

"Bobby Singer's Repair Yard. How can I help you?" Bobby barked down the phone.

Dean couldn't make out at words from the tinny voice down the other end but he heard Bobby's response, "Ash? From the Roadhouse?"

Dean frowned, unsure why he'd be ringing them instead of Jo. He heard a number of indistinct uh-huh, uh-huh from Bobby followed by, "I'll get some paper." He saw Bobby scribble down a series of digits, most likely a set of coordinates, "How many other hunters know about this?"

Whatever response Ash gave, it wasn't good as Bobby just muttered "Shit, Thanks for letting me know. I'll deal with this." Bobby hung up moments later and turned to Dean, "That was Ash from the roadhouse." Dean snorted, he'd picked up that much. "A couple of hunters sighted Sam here," He pointed to the coordinates, "Apparently half the roadhouse heard about it so we need to get moving now."

Dean didn't need telling twice, especially when it was a good excuse not to eat Bobby's bizarre idea of supper. He'd had a duffel packed ready to go in his doorway for the past few months and he grabbed it, slinging it a little awkwardly over his shoulder. Bobby's fitness regime had done wonders for his general health but he had a feeling his right side was never going to respond quite as quick as he was used to and the limp persisted despite his best efforts.

An hour after the phone call they were on the road. They'd taken one of Bobby's trucks agreeing that the Impala was definitely too conspicuous. The plan was to get as close as possible to Sam before he realised they were there. As it turned out, they just had to follow the ambulance sirens.

By the time they reached the scene, the unfortunate dead was being zipped into a body bag. Dean craned his neck to make sure it wasn't the face of his little brother and breathed a somewhat guilty sigh of relief when he realised it wasn't. He felt a sudden shove from Bobby, pushing him behind the cover of a nearby tree. He realised the reason moments later when a familiar voice called over, "Bobby Singer, what the hell do you think you are doing here?" Jo's voice hadn't changed much.

Dean pressed himself back against the tree, trying to hide most of himself without making it plainly obvious to the passing people who could see what he was doing.

"Doing what I promised I'd do," came Bobby's gruff response, "Why didn't you let me know there'd been a sighting of Sam?"

"Because I knew you'd try to save him and I don't think there's any of him left to save." Jo's response was sad but with the underlying grit that had characterised her mother.

"There's always something." Bobby spat out though Dean felt the words were more for his benefit than for the girl in front of him.

"Never pegged you for an optimist." Jo taunted.

"Never pegged you for a cold-blooded killer. Sam Winchester is still human. Last I heard you hadn't even made your first kill on a hunt yet."

Dean's attention was drawn away from the arguing pair when he spotted a familiar lanky figure leaning against a lamp post watching the scene. He made sure to keep the tree between him and the crime scene line of sight as he moved off in that direction. He felt guilty for not letting Bobby know where he was going but there wasn't really an opportunity without alerting Jo.

The figure apparently didn't spot him and soon it detached itself from the lamp post and slunk off down an alley. Dean followed warily, feeling the reassuring weight of the gun tucked into the back of his jeans and hoping to a God he didn't believe in that he wouldn't need to use it. The first jolt of panic came when he reached the end of the alley and found nothing there. He span around, eyes scouring the vicinity for any sign of the person he'd been tracking.

"Who the hell are you and why are you following me?" A dark voice came from somewhere above Dean and he looked up to find the man standing on a platform attached to a nearby apartment. It was still shadowy and dark but Dean could recognise his brother even in pitch black with his eyes closed.

"Sammy," Dean breathed more than spoke the word.

"Dean?" The sinister voice was gone and that word was said in his brother's surprised voice. There was a clatter as the figure stepped off the platform, landing with catlike grace on the ground and Dean immediately found himself enveloped in a bear hug, "Dean!" Sam's breath tickled his ear, "I knew it. I knew I'd get you back."

Despite the innocence with which Sam said those words, they set a chill in Dean's stomach and he pulled himself out of the hug and glanced down at his brother. Sam was dressed in the same hoody and jeans combination that he always used to wear except now they were stained with red, sticky red which was now pressed against Dean from the hug, "What the hell's been going on, Sam? You got half the hunter community gunning for you," He tugged a hand into the bloodstained hoody, "Whose blood is this?"

"No-one important," Sam said casually, "No-one else is important now I have you back." Sam gripped Dean's chin, inspecting his brother's face, "You are too thin, you need to eat more."

Dean would laugh if it wasn't for the fact the situation wasn't funny, "Sam," He pushed his brother's hand down, "You can't just dismiss this. There was a dead body there and you are covered in blood." Dean narrowed his eyes, "Christo."

Sam didn't flinch, just frowned, "Dean, what's wrong? I'm not possessed, it's me." He brought his hands up again to cup Dean's face and then ran a hand back through his brother's hair, "Your hair's longer." Sam said in bemused wonder.

"Always about the damn hair," Dean muttered with amusement he didn't feel. "Hair grows, 'member?" Dean carried on, feeling a shakiness in his legs as he faced his brother, "Come on, Sam. Bobby's waiting by the truck. We get back to him and he'll sort this out." Dean concentrated to keep the slur out of his voice, only managing marginally. He grabbed his brother's jacket in his right hand but his fingers wouldn't tightly close on the fabric as he wanted so Sam just pulled himself free.

"Bobby?" Sam hissed, "We can't go to Bobby. He wouldn't understand. I brought you back, Dean, I did what I had to but I brought you back and now no-one can hurt you."

A dizzy wave of shock went through Dean and he felt the muscles in his legs lose control, sending him crashing to knees. The ground bit harshly against his knees and it was only a hasty catch from his brother that prevented him from sprawling onto his face. His breath sounded harsh and loud in his ears as his brain scrabbled to try and make some sense of, "Sam?" His voice was a wisp against the background hubbub of the city, "Sam, you di'n bring me back. I never left." He was too tired to speak properly, his voice slurred and unsteady.

"Dean?" Sam knelt opposite him, steadying arms on his shoulders, "What's the matter?" His brother suddenly jerked backwards, a look of horror on his face, "You came back wrong." Sam ran a thumb across his brother's cheek, peering intently into his eyes, "This is my fault. I kept asking the demon how long before I would have you back and now he sent you back too soon and you are all wrong."

Dean tried to pull away from his brother's hands but his reedy strength wasn't enough, "Sam, 'm not wrong, just Dean. You di'n bring me back." He tried to seize his brother to make his point but Sam evaded his grasping hands, sliding back out of reach, "I'll be fine. Just need to get m' strength back."

Sam stood back up though Dean could see a quiver in his brother's legs, "God, Dean. I'm so sorry. I promise you next time I'll be more patient." Dean opened his mouth to ask what Sam meant and then his breath froze in his throat as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun again, "Just some pain for a little while, Dean. I promise I'll wait this time and you'll be perfect."

Dean abandoned any attempt at coherent speech, babbling over himself, "Sam, I never died. 's just me. Please, Sam, don't do this. Please." He begged his brother.

Sam shook his head, tears running down from his hazel-blue eyes, "It's alright, Dean. You are confused, that's alright. Next time it will be better."

Dean knew there was nothing he could do so he just closed his eyes and steeled himself for the sound of the trigger. Instead another voice broke in, "Hey you, what are you doing? Put that down."

Sam's gun swung around to point at the police officer and Dean saw his chance, lunging for Sam's legs, wrapping his arms around. The crack of a gun went off and Dean saw the police officer fall but it looked like the bullet had clipped them rather than wounded them. The gunshot was sure to draw attention and Dean could hear the sound of running footsteps along with the voice checking up on the downed officer's radio.

Sam freed himself from Dean's grasp and stood again, looking down at his brother. He readied the gun and then glanced around at the sound of footsteps. Finally he bent down, gently brushing a hand through Dean's hair, "I've got to go, Dean. I promise I'll be back and you can sleep properly. I can't take you with me at the moment but I won't leave you to die here, not again." He saw Sam spin the gun in his hands and then saw the butt of the gun making its way to his temple then all was black.

* * *

Dean awoke to comfort. There was something soft beneath his head and a hand resting on his head. For a moment he panicked, thinking Sam was already back to finish the job but a soothing feminine voice interrupted the flow, "It's alright, Dean. Bobby, he's awake."

As awareness seeped back in, Dean could hear the rumbling grumble of an engine as well as the sound of other cars passing them by. He was definitely in Bobby's truck but there was another smell beyond the musk of Bobby, the leather of the seats and the metallic tang of the weapons and the blood that had been shed in there. It wasn't exactly perfume.

"Dean," He could hear Bobby's voice ahead of him. He must be in the backseat, "It's alright, lad. You are in the truck."

Dean wanted to make a sarcastic quip to that but his mouth felt dry and the pain in his head was increasing with every drip of awareness, "Wuh?" was all he managed to get out which could have meant anything.

"We're heading to the roadhouse." The feminine voice stated and Dean recognised it as Jo. He frowned, parsing through recent memories to try and figure out at which point they had informed Jo he wasn't dead after all. He couldn't find any such memory which started him worried about what memories he could have lost.

"Which I still don't think is a good idea." Bobby's voice rumbled in tune with his truck, "Enough hunters are going to be on edge with Carson's death without throwing Dean coming back from the dead into the mix."

"I don't think we need to re-hash the argument," Jo said, her voice deceptively honey sweet, "You two burying your head in the sand hasn't lasted you great so far." Dean felt a finger push into his side, "And don't think I'm letting you off for letting me think you were dead for almost ten months."

"Leave the boy alone," Bobby grouched, "I think he's been through enough." Dean heard the engine rumble quieter, "There's a road stop just ahead. Does a great breakfast. I think we could all use something to eat, don't you?"

Dean's stomach let out a loud rumble, almost drowning out that of the engine. Jo chuckled, "I think we have a yes vote over here." Dean blinked open his eyes to peer blearily up at Jo, smiling at her.

Once the truck stopped, Bobby hauled Dean out of the back, slinging the younger hunter's arm over his shoulders and helping him towards the café. Jo clung to Dean's other side and Dean knew they made an odd trio as they made their way in. Bobby was obviously a regular in there as a waitress immediately sauntered over with a pot of coffee and a flirtatious wink. She eyed the young hunter slung between Bobby and Jo, "You bringing in strays now, Singer?"

Bobby smirked at the waitress, "The promise of your breakfast can bring even the dead back to life," Bobby brought them over to the table, gliding Dean into a seat and then joining him, "Make it three breakfasts and three coffees. Better make it an orange juice for the zombie here."

"Want coffee," Dean weakly protested, leaning against the window and rubbing muggily at himself.

"Coffee and concussions don't go well together," Bobby helpfully pointed out, "And I think we need to talk about how you got the concussion, not to mention that spectacular bruise."

Dean brought a hand up to rub at his temple, wincing as his fingers touched the blue-purple bump developing there, "Getting kind of sick of being out of it," Dean admitted, "Can it wait 'til we've eaten? M'hungry."

"Not a chance, I'm a student of John Winchester avoidance strategies. After that, you'd not want to eat because you are sleepy and full." The waitress returned with the drinks and Dean looked balefully at his glass of orange juice, "You got any idea how worried I was? One minute I'm talking to Jo, I turn to check on you, you aren't there then I hear a bunch of police rushing down an alley, yelling about man down. I follow them and you are lying there in the alley, looking to all the world like a dead man." Bobby's hand clenched around the coffee mug.

"Should I say sorry for not being dead?" Dean asked, bringing the glass up to his mouth and tipping the juice back into his mouth in three gulps in an attempt to ignore the questions. When he looked up from the glass, there were two sets of eyes: one light and one dark brown watching him, "Fine. I found Sam." He heard Jo's startled gasp and Bobby's reluctant sigh, "He sounded normal but then he noticed my injuries and started babbling about me coming back wrong. He seemed convinced something he'd done had brought me back and he started up talking about bring me back better next time." Dean knew his words weren't very coherent but he didn't have the patience to stop and separate the words instead of just getting them out as clear as possible. He could see Bobby nodding along adjusted to Dean's speech whereas Jo looked confused and a bit worried.

"What then?" Bobby prompted when Dean showed no sign of continuing.

"Then," Dean halted, "He pointed a gun at my head and was about to shoot until the police officer showed up. He mumbled about not being able to take me with him and pistol-whipped me instead." Dean gripped the glass, wishing there was something left in it for him to drink just to distract himself from things.

He looked up to Bobby and Jo's shocked expressions. Both of them took synchronised deep glugs of their coffee and winced at the heat. Bobby was the one who recovered enough to speak first, "I guess we have proof that Sam has gone off the deep end. Now we need to decide what to do about it."

"Perhaps we should save this discussion until we need to the roadhouse," Jo ventured, glancing suspiciously around to the other diner patrons.

"I think I'd prefer to talk about this with a bunch of normal people who won't understand rather than a bunch of hunters who might decide to act on it," Bobby stated.

"Not hurt Sam," Dean emphasised, "We have to help him." Just then, Dean had to fall silent as the waitress came over with three loaded plates juggled between them. Dean's stomach turned a little as he looked down, there was enough food on one plate to feed all three of them. He picked the fork up loosely in one hand, ignoring the quivers in the utensil and tried to decide where on the plate to start. Jo appeared to be having similar issues whereas Bobby just dug right in. Finally Dean opted to start on the eggs.

Jo just circled the fork over the plate and then dug it at random into the hash browns, "How many of the hunters who've gone missing so far are down to your brother? What about my mother?"

"Sam wouldn't kill Ellen," Dean protested.

"He tried to kill you," Jo protested, almost too loud and quickly had to dip her voice and glanced down at her plate for a long moment, "I don't think he really has a limit."

Dean viciously speared a sausage, using the knife awkwardly in his right hand to try and slice off some meat and then stuffed it into his mouth, chewing vigorously and glaring at Jo.

"We can't assume anything. Given what you have said about the increased demonic activity there could be any number of things responsible for your mother's disappearance." Bobby stated, trying to keep the peace between the two.

"What increased?" Dean asked, not bothering to swallow down his mouthful of food first.

"Ash has produced a whole spreadsheet on it," Jo said with a roll of her eyes, "Charting where incidents of possession have gone up, where hunters have gone missing, where other supernatural creatures have gone missing. He's run about two dozen home-made algorithms on the data so far but he hasn't found a pattern yet. He does a print out each day of the map and pins it to a board in the bar to give the other hunters a look."

"Sounds like something I wanna see," Dean said, eating his breakfast with some more gusto.

"I thought Sam was the geek," Bobby said without thinking.

Dean just snorted at him, "Give Sammy a book and he'll be happy for a week. Put him in the world and he'll look at you funny and say 'What I do with this?'" Dean played about with the food still on his place, re-arranging bits, "'M the one that saw the pattern first time we ran into Meg. Loadsa spots of blood and I saw the symbol, not Sam." Dean gathered up another forkful of food including the four main food groups: grease, fat, meat and potato and stuffed it into his mouth with a satisfied grin.

"Eat up," Bobby gruffly stated, "The sooner we get to the road house, the sooner we can start to sort this whole mess out."


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** The woods are lovely, dark and deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester had begun to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer:** Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Thanks: **To the fabulous duck-torturing TraSan who tracks down itinerant tenses in between writing wonderful fic of her own.

**Author's Notes: **Apologies for the lateness of this chapter and my lack of reply to reviews. I returned from the folk festival (which was utterly wonderful) to find I had no internet. After several phone calls to my ISP Tiscali in which I attempted to persuade them that Yes, being a full-time programmer and having a Computer Science degree, I was entirely sure there wasn't a problem with my router or computer then they must have a line problem. Also that given one of my local friends using Tiscali had also lost internet access at exactly the same time, the odds of some router suicide pact going on were low so could they please sort their line out!!

Finally got internet access back late on Thursday just in time to pack up and go for a family holiday in the Lake District which was brilliant too, even if I needed a holiday again afterwards to recover from the parents.

Excuses over, I will try to be more punctual and try to reply to all the lovely people that have reviewed this fic so far.

**Chapter 10**

The minute the trio walked into the roadhouse, it became evident that they'd missed out a rather concrete step in the plan. Namely telling the two dozen odd hunters currently inside that 'No, Dean wasn't dead.' This flaw quickly became clear as two dozen guns were cocked and Dean found himself staring down at the two dozen barrels.

Jo and Bobby almost bumped each other out of the way as they moved to stand in front of him. Dean scowled at that, at such a clear sign that both of them believed he was incapable of looking after himself.

"Put the damn guns down," Jo called out in a strident voice, more than an echo of her mother's commanding tones present.

The hunters glanced between themselves but only two or three actually lowered their aim and even then they looked wary. It was a hunter seated at the bar, all lean muscle and harsh angles, that declared himself the spokesperson, "Sorry, Jo, but that guy is a dead ringer for Dean Winchester and we ain't taking no chances with that demon of a brother about."

"My brother is not a demon," Dean protested and immediately realised that was exactly the wrong thing to say as the few that had lowered their guns raised them back up again and the expressions turned from wary suspicion to angry hatred.

"Jo, Bobby, get out of the way." The spokesperson said.

"So you can shoot him? Hell no!" If anything, Jo crowded herself more against Dean, leaving no space for an opportunistic shot, "Would y'all put your guns down and listen?"

The spokesperson looked around the room and smirked as the guns didn't even twitch, "I think we've got a vote for no here. Step away, Jo. I respected your mother and I don't want to have to shoot you." The unspoken 'But I will' was clear.

"Your finger even twitches on that trigger and you'll be dead before the signal makes it from your pea-sized brain to your wimpy trigger finger," Bobby stated, not even bothering to reach for his own gun, just using his reputation as a battering ram.

"You protecting zombies now, Bobby Singer?" The spokesperson asked, "'cos that doesn't fit what I've heard about you."

"Well, I heard nothing whatsoever 'bout you so what say we stand on my reputation and put the damn guns down." Bobby stared forcefully before adding, "Oh, and Dean's not a zombie." As if it was just a casual afterthought.

A few guns wavered that time but none actually lowered, just a few indecisive looks passed between the group, "We'll hear you out but you stand right there."

"You'll hear me out in my own bar?" Jo snit.

"Later, girl," Bobby said, "Here's the deal. Dean here ain't dead, obviously. Just been real sick for a while. He ain't got nothing to do with what his brother has been up to but he's also our best chance at stopping him. Now put your damn guns down. Next gun I see pointed at Dean gets snapped in half."

Half the guns went down on pure instinct just from the tone of Bobby's voice, the others lowered more slowly but remained at the ready. Jo started the walk towards the bar and Bobby motioned Dean to precede him, keeping Dean sandwiched between the two of them to make a shot more awkward. Dean would complain later when there wasn't a room full of people ready to shoot him.

The tension in the room was still palpable, everyone waiting for something to happen or an excuse to start shooting. Jo ordered three beers off the barman, a man Dean didn't recognise, who nervously placed them in front of the trio, forgetting to pop the lids off until Jo rolled her eyes and motioned for the bottle opener.

"Should you be drinking that on your meds?" Bobby eyed the sweating bottle in front of Dean.

Dean scowled, apparently having a gun pointed at you invalided Bobby's promise not to baby him, "If I have an adverse reaction, it'll just save these hunters or my brother the trouble of killing me." Dean defiantly took a swig, wincing a little at the taste. It would take him a while to get accustomed to beer again.

"What meds?" Jo asked in irritated worry and Dean groaned, he really didn't feel like running through the litany of just how fucked up Dean Winchester was again. He could see Bobby opening his mouth to explain and just wanted to sink below the bar.

Fortunately Dean was saved from the sympathetic explanation by Ash sauntered out of his room into the bar. Or rather he sauntered out, took one look around, settled his eyes on Dean, called out "Hey man," frowned, said "Damn, of course," turned around, muttered "That's really going to fuck with my spreadsheets," and headed back into his room.

Jo and Bobby's mirrored shocked expressions were so amusing that Dean couldn't help laughing. When they turned to look at Dean, the laughter only grew until Dean had to lean his head on the bar because it felt like his body couldn't support him anymore. He had a feeling toppling back off his stool would be just enough to provoke one of these hunters into shooting him. That wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact Bobby would probably get himself shot trying to defend him and if this world was going all to hell, it sure as hell needed Bobby Singer in its corner.

He felt Bobby's warm hand resting on his back, rubbing, "Dean? You alright? You having a seizure?"

That just made Dean laugh harder. After all, if he was having a seizure, how the hell would he answer that one, "No," He finally choked out, "Just the two of you," He lifted his head again, leaning back against the support Bobby's hand still offered, "It was just comical."

Jo and Bobby just glanced between each other in a 'Has he gone over the edge?' manner and that was almost enough to set Dean off again. Everything was just so damn funny, it was so damn funny because if it wasn't, Dean had a feeling he'd be a whimpering mess on the floor and Winchesters were never whimpering messes.

Ash was once again Dean's saviour from awkward explanations as he staggered out of his room, rolls of paper looped over his arms. He made his way straight for the trio and glared at Dean, "Do you have any idea how much you messed up my calculations?" He grouched. "Seriously, I even doubted myself once, briefly."

"Sorry for not being dead," Dean said offhandly, turning on the stool slowly and taking another gulp from the beer to ease the roughness in his throat from the laughter.

"Eh, you being dead threw everything off. You being alive, now that makes sense," Ash showed one of the common eccentricities of genius, talking complete bollocks and expecting everyone to have a clue what you are talking about.

"Glad you think so. If you persuade the rest of the people in the room, I'd be grateful." Dean had to make a concerted effort not to slur or stutter. Showing weakness in a room full of hunters is about as sensible as sticking your arm in a lion's throat and yelling bite me. As it is, he still could hear some but hoped they'd just put it down to not handling his beer well.

Ash glanced around the room of wary hunters, only just seeming to notice the rest of the people there, "Huh," He said before glancing to one of the empty tables. "Come over here so I can spread my work out."

Dean felt Bobby's arms move to help him off the stool and deliberately shoved himself off, determined to show some independence. It wasn't his best idea as his right knee attempted to buckle and he only saved himself from a tumble by hooking an arm onto the stool. He shifted away from Bobby's arms trying to help him out and then again when Jo tried the same, using the strength of arms to push himself back up to his knees and then locking his legs to half-stagger over to the table Ash had indicated. He didn't care how it looked at that point, he just wanted the relief of a chair with a back to lean against.

He saw Ash watching him all the way over and the genius smirked as Dean sunk down into one of the wooden chairs, "Man, you are fucked up." He stated but somehow from Ash it didn't carry much of a sting. "Take a look at this." Ash unrolled one of the charts.

It looked like a hell of a lot of squiggles to Dean, interspersed with the occasional red dot. He tried to find some common point of reference to connect this bizarre diagram with anything he'd seen before but failed miserably and just glanced to Ash, "What the hell is it?"

Ash blinked and looked down, "Oh, upside-down." Ash turned the graph around and gestured as if suddenly it would make perfect sense.

Dean frowned at the picture and waited for something to coalesce from the chaos. He paused and glanced down at a patch of symbols and dots that seemed vaguely similar, "This." He pointed, making sure to use his stiff right hand so things didn't seem too amiss, "Looks familiar. Like the symbol Meg used."

"Really?" Ash sounded like Dean had just handed him a basket of Christmas candy or rather with Ash, Christmas beer and hash, "I'd been trying to figure out this one. All of them seem to be grouped into symbols. This one is from early Judaism, this is modern Sikhism."

"Why the hell would the demon be forming religious symbols all over the place?" Dean complained, stuttering a little in his haste, "What are all these dots anyway?"

"Cluster graph based on geological location, type of attack, number of victims, a load of different factors. Let me tell you, the algorithm that put this together, best work I've done so far." Ash was immune to humility, "As for the religious symbols, I've got a theory." Ash pulled out a sheet of tracing paper and overlaid it on the map and handing a pencil to Dean to draw out the Zoroastrian symbol.

Dean gripped the pencil, trying to force his fingers to assume the position that had always seemed natural before. He had to be careful not to rip through the tracing paper as he linked up the dots into a simulacrum of the one Meg had splattered in blood from the tattered remains of a girl's body, "Well?" He prompted Ash once he'd finished.

"The demon has taken a leaf out of Christianity's book," Ash said, looking over the new symbol, "Christianity wanted to wipe out the pagans so it took over their festivals. They took Samhain and made it All Soul's day. They took Imbolc and made it St Brigid's day. They took Yule and Saturnalia and made it Christmas." Ash tapped the various symbols, "The demon is trying to steal our protection away. You said that the demon's brat managed to waltz straight into hallowed ground and kill your dad's friend, right?"

Dean winced a little at the memory of Pastor Jim. The gentle religious man who'd been the first of his father's friends to fall at Meg's hands, "Yeah. Dad never figured out how she did that." Of course, there hadn't exactly been much time to talk about it.

"The demon has been doing this for years. He takes what isn't his, the special kids, the symbols and makes them his. He's playing the long con and frankly, we're a bit screwed. We got some serious catch-up to play." Ash pulled out another chart, "Recognise anything on this one?"

Dean heard the scrape of chairs as Jo and Bobby joined them, leaning over to look at the chart. Dean scanned the mass of dots and squiggles, waiting for something to jump out at him like before. "Wait," He said and then lifted a hand and moved over a series of seven dots that just seemed to stand out beyond the rest, "Shit, it's Orion."

"The hunter?" Jo asked, peering closer until she could see the pattern, "But that's just a constellation. There's nothing there to claim." It was obvious those two and probably most of the bar within hearing range had been listening in to Dean and Ash's conversation.

"Bastards taunting us," Bobby spat out, "Thinks we are too dumb to find this so he's leaving something like this out in the open."

Ash overlaid tracing paper again and gestured to Dean to draw it out, a crinkled frown of concentration on his face, "It's more than that. Just taunting us with our patron isn't enough, he's a cocky bastard. He marches into people's homes and steals their babies. He pins women to the ceiling, that's just showmanship. He must have left us as clue somewhere here, probably close to Orion, expecting that we'd never find it."

Shadows cast on the paper alerted Dean to the fact several other hunters from the bar had now joined them, leaning over the seats to try and see what they could. There was silence for long moments, nothing but the inhale and exhale of breath as everyone scoured for the clue.

Dean leant back on his chair with a sigh, "Can't see anything." He rubbed at his eyes which were starting to droop. He hated how much simple things still tired him despite the fact it was a long time since his accident.

Ash nodded, "Me neither but that doesn't mean I don't know it's there. There's just patterns where it should be, just got to track it down. I need more beer," He said, snagging his hand around the beer that used to be Dean's and pouring it down his throat, "Sorry, man, but you did still owe me."

"This one kind of looks like a daisy," one of the hunters ventured from over Dean's shoulder.

Bobby snorted, "Maybe the hippies had it right. Flower power will save the day."

Unfortunately that one suggestion seemed to open the floodgates for all sorts of ridiculous suggestions until half the bar was crowded around the table.

"That's it," Bobby finally roared, "I don't think the demonic takeover is going to be defeated with houmous. Ash, can you run off some copies off this for the rest of the bar and each group appoint a spokesperson to bring the sensible ideas over to this table, okay?" Dean almost expected the hunters in the bar to salute, a good portion of them were ex-military.

Eventually just Ash, Dean, Jo and Bobby were left on the original table pouring over the map. Dean was glad at least the atmosphere was one of cooperation now and not the cooperating to shoot Dean Winchester dead kind as it had been earlier. Dean tried to refocus on the map but his vision was starting to get a little fuzzy and his brain kept seeing the daisies and bunnies and rifles that the rest of the hunters had been suggesting.

Dean paused and tried to re-focus on the area of the rifle. His father had never owned the rifle that was their namesake, claiming it was just too corny but Dean had spent hours pouring over photos of the internet about them a few times, proud of it. The grouping of dots did look a lot like the images he had seen from the slightly rugged look to the distinctive butt. He glanced to see if either of the other three had noticed his attention and was relieved they hadn't.

This was something he needed to puzzle out on his own. The long barrel of the Winchester was pointing upwards and away from Orion which was a relief. The demon would have loved to taunt him about the Winchester line being the destruction of the hunters. He would have liked to think it meant that the Winchester line would be the destruction of the demon but seeing as the only Winchester currently both alive and on the side of the angels was him and he'd be lucky to go one round with a pixie, that was unlikely to be the truth.

Dean kept the image in mind as he searched the vicinity for anything else that might give more of a clue to the significance of the rifle. Maybe the rifle was just another symbol that the demon was trying to claim as his own. He'd done a damn good job so far of making people fear and distrust Winchesters. Dean wanted to believe it was something deeper than that though. The demon had been his family's crusade for so long that it ending with a whimper like this seemed too hard to think about.

After that, it became hard to think at all and Dean could feel his head sagging towards the table, yanking it and himself back into consciousness before it hit the table. It didn't go unnoticed for long and Bobby practically lifted him up and carried him into the backroom of the roadhouse, practically for all that he let Dean's legs drag across the ground in a semblance of walking. When Bobby laid Dean out on the bed and draped the blanket over him, it didn't take long to fall asleep.

* * *

When Dean woke up to a gun pointed at his head, he didn't panic. Frankly at this point, he'd be more worried about waking up in an empty room with nothing abnormal going on at all. If the Buddhist theory of Karma really did pan out then the Winchesters should be living the life of riley by now. 

The woman holding the gun didn't appear particularly threatening. She had the hard muscles and aged eyes that all hunters did but that was nothing Dean hadn't faced a few dozen times before. What was far more frightening was that the gun quivered in her hand. 'Ooops, slipped' was not a guts and glory Winchester way to go.

"Morning," Dean slurred, lifting a hand slowly to rub against his sleep-spattered eyes, "I usually prefer coffee, black, no sugar."

"Your brother killed my sister," The woman hissed at him, tracking each of his movements with the gun.

"And a blue-eyed boy took my baby away but you don't see me packing," Dean grouched. He hated mornings to begin with and this wasn't just making things worse.

"How can you joke about this?" The woman continues to hiss and Dean was beginning to wonder if that snake demon was back with new tricks.

He shoved himself a bit higher on the bed, keeping the blanket mostly covering him. No point in giving the woman a free show, "Your sister a hunter?"

"Yeah," The woman sounded a little uncertain.

"But you weren't." Dean said, it was all beginning to make sense now. Hell, he was a Winchester, what he didn't know about wanting vengeance wasn't worth knowing.

"I've learnt." She snapped but she still sounded uncertain, Dean's questions getting her on edge.

"Not well enough," Dean snapped back, "Your sister would kick your ass if she saw you here pointing a gun at a fellow hunter 'cos he happened to share a bloodline with someone who got snared in the demon's schemes. You take one peek at the darkness out there and you judge me?" Dean lowered his voice to a snarl, "You know, Bobby threatened to break the gun of the next person to point a gun at me. Get out of here now and maybe I won't tell him."

The girl, and Dean can tell now in the creepy morning light from the window that she's no older than eighteen or nineteen, squeaks and the gun shakes a little more, "My sister…"

"Is dead," Dean states bluntly, "And shooting me isn't gonna make her any less dead. In fact, it would prolly just make you more dead 'cos there's a few people here kinda like me, God only knows why." Dean saw her waver and glance towards the door, "Not to mention my evil brother who seems determined to kill me for my own good and might be a bit miffed if someone else gets there first."

The girl backed towards the door, closed her hand around the handle and opened, still holding the gun unsteadily on Dean. With one final whimper, she backed out and closed the door. Dean breathed out a sigh of relief and sagged back on the pillows, "Good fucking morning to you too," He muttered to the ceiling.

He knew he wasn't going to get any sleep now so he reluctantly pulled himself out of his blankets, stretching to try and re-awaken his muscles which were currently responding belatedly to the adrenalin rush fight-or-flight response by twitching like crazy. For a moment he worried he was going to have another seizure but the muscles settled down. Dean swung out of bed, grabbing the bottle of painkillers and the anti-seizure medicine and palming a couple of pills.

The kitchen was empty which was a blessing. Dean poured a glass of orange juice which was about all he felt he could stomach and knocked back the pills, waiting for the residual pain to fade back to the background hum he could deal with. As the pain receded, so did the queasy unsettled feeling in his stomach and he let himself rest against the back of the chair, eyes keeping watch on the door in case of any more surprise visitors.

Unfortunately Dean wasn't able to be alone for long as Jo slouched in through the doorway, yawning and dressed in a loose pair of flannel pajamas. It was then that Dean felt rather self-conscious about being just dressed in his boxers. It wasn't a problem with his body being on show, Dean was proud of his body even if it had seen better days. The problem was the maze of scars from the witches' slice and dice and the bullet hole from Sam's first murder attempt (And boy, they didn't cover that in the children's books Dean used to read his little brother) along with the surgical scars from the repairs.

Dean pondered whether slinking out of the kitchen unnoticed was an option but Jo soon removed that option when her bleary brown eyes focused on the intruder. For a moment Dean saw her pause to reach for a weapon and then relax when she saw it was just Dean. Just Dean wasn't sure how he felt about that. "You left any OJ?"

The carton had seemed kind of light when he'd finished pouring, Dean guiltily recalled, and he held up his half-empty glass, "Share?" He offered.

Jo just crinkled her nose, "Ew, boy germs," and tugged open the fridge, pulling out the bottle of milk and pouring herself a glass instead, settling at the table opposite Dean. It was possible to pinpoint the exact moment she spotted all of Dean's scars as her eyes widened and she let out an involuntary gasp.

"I know. I'm so handsome I can barely believe it myself." Dean quipped half-heartedly.

Jo seemed to catch the drift as she glanced down into her milk, a hint of blush across her cheeks, "Sorry."

"It's not your fault. Women can't help reacting to someone who looks this good."

Jo scowled at him then though it was a kind of sleepy scowl, the corner of her mouth tilting upwards, not quite clued up on the expression the rest of her was trying to convey, "You make it really hard to be sympathetic."

Dean just tilted up a brow as if to say 'Well, duh.' "So, did our hunter think-tank solve the mystery of the symbols last night?"

"Depends," Jo smirked, "Is it a viable theory that the demon can be defeated by houmous-wielding flower-child bunnies?"

Dean winced at that image, disturbing the mental peace he often sought for, "Guessing I didn't miss much."

"You missed Ash's inspirational pep talk," Jo said.

"Let me guess. 'Hurry up and work this shit out then we can get stoned and party?'" Dean tried to mimic Ash's voice but his brain had enough trouble with regular language, let alone someone else's accents, he could manage the half-addled slur without much difficulty.

"You missed out 'get laid.'" Jo said with a chuckle, "Ash was very explicit about getting laid and I mean, very explicit. I'm never letting him drink that much beer again."

"'M almost sorry I missed that." Dean cracked his jaw in a yawn, trying to shake the residues of sleep away as he polished off what was left of his orange juice, "Any hot water left?"

"Probably," Jo answered, "It's just the four of us staying here. I haven't showered yet, Ash doesn't shower, Bobby probably doesn't know how to shower so that just leaves you."

Dean nodded and was just heading out of the doorway when he paused, "I thought I saw a girl in the hallway this morning. Short, late teens, kinda pissy."

Jo frowned, "Sounds like Esme. She's been haunting around here lately since her sister died." At Dean's startled expression, Jo amended, "I don't mean genuine haunting. She's still alive, even if I think she wishes she was a ghost sometimes. Don't let her bother you, she's nasty to everyone that has the audacity to be alive when her sister ain't. Seriously needs to get over herself."

"You're telling me," Dean mumbled, "Okay. I'll hit the shower, see you later."

* * *

Dean stepped into the shower and relished the feel of hot water scalding against his skin. What Jo had said about Bobby and showers wasn't strictly true but when you live out in the middle of nowhere, hot water isn't always a top priority and Dean had adjusted to the fact he either showered in ten minutes or got a sudden chilly wake-up. Dean was hoping the shower in a place more commonly inhabited by two women would be slightly better. 

He grabbed the nearest shampoo bottle and sniffed at the lid before replacing it, too floral. The next two were dismissed for being too girly and too sweet in turn and Dean was wondering exactly how many bottles of shampoo Jo owned before he came to one which smelled a little musky. That'd do. He squeezed a generous bottle of the globular brown into his palm and then worked it through his too long hair. He really needed to ask about a haircut. He wasn't about to let Bobby anywhere near his hair, Ash was not the best person to consult on haircuts. Jo? Jo would do.

Hair done, he searched the shower gel racks. The closest to suitable he could come was one that'd probably leave him smelling like an after-eight but it was infinitely preferable to smelling like the perfume counter of a department store. His right arm ached after he had finished scrubbing away the day's worth of sweat and dirt but he was determined to stop favouring the left as Bobby had insinuated.

If he was going to protect Sammy like he'd always sworn, he'd need both arms strong and functioning. And that was just to stop his little brother killing him first.

A/N: The houmous is, of course, a reference to Buffy. I need to write a Crack!Fic one of these days about the Winchester boys and Oz.

The shower scene is mostly gratuitous but I'm sure most of you aren't complaining


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: **The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer: **Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings and notes:**Multiple character death. Dark fic.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.

**Author's Notes:**

**Chapter 11**

By the time Dean emerged from the shower, he could hear the sound of an argument going on in the main bar. He ducked briefly into his room, towelling off the worst of the drips from his hair but leaving it damp. He pulled on a pair of jeans and the non-descript t-shirt Bobby had picked up for him from a Wal-mart and then made his way out to the bar.

Jo was standing in the centre of the bar, hip cocked towards Bobby and one finger poking into his chest. Bobby meanwhile was doing his best to tower over the diminutive girl and had a hand on each of her shoulders, looking about ready to shake her. Dean was very tempted to walk around and pretend that he hadn't spotted either of them.

Unfortunately his movement was still stiff despite the shower loosening him up so he couldn't turn before he was spotted. "Dean!" Jo called over, "This idiot here is trying to poke holes in Ash's theory. You believe it's right, don't you?"

Bobby rolled his eyes, "I'm just pointing out that basing our whole gameplan on the demon being enough of a cocky bastard to leave a clearly labelled 'please press here to destroy evil' button on a map is not sound tactics."

"As I believe I pointed out last night," Jo seemed to be addressing the comment towards Dean but he had a feeling he was about to play peanut gallery to the whole argument, "There is a possibility that it isn't the demon who left certain symbols."

"Of course," Bobby sneered, "The demon having spent about a quarter of a century setting up the plan would no doubt leave the board unattended for a bit. After all, it's not like anything might be working against him."

"I made the point that the demon could have set up the board any way he likes, that doesn't mean there isn't some sneaky bugger underneath the table with a magnet." Jo turned an appealing face towards Dean, "You know what this could mean?"

"That we're royally fucked if Fate has to resort to playing pictionary?" Dean replied, too tired for this sort of argument this early in the morning.

Jo glared at him, "It means that the demon probably doesn't know about the extra symbols, he's not going to be searching for patterns in his own patterns so this way we can get one step ahead."

"The demon doesn't know about them because they are pure fantasy," Bobby obviously felt Dean was on his side as he continued his tirade, "For all we know, this whole pattern stuff is a computer glitch. This is why I prefer books."

"And this is why your old version of hunting is as dead as the dinosaurs." Jo retorted.

Dean rubbed at his forehead, feeling like the two of them were sand-papering away the numbness that the painkillers gave. Dean briefly wondered whether passing out on the floor might get them to stop arguing for a bit. More than likely they'd just argue over why he'd just passed out on the floor.

He could see Ash sprawled across the pool table passed out and was envious in that moment. When his gaze swept across, he saw Ash lift his head, wink in Dean's direction and then flop soundlessly back. Playing dead? The bastard had the right idea.

"Gonna make coffee," Dean mumbled and tried to make his escape back to the kitchen, knowing it was unlikely to be that easy.

"Dean!" Jo shrilled, her tone drilling through Dean's head, "Aren't you going to help us settle this?" Bobby just crossed his arms and looked smugly over at the pair of younger hunters.

Dean just shook his head and turned to make his way out of the bar. Two footsteps in, his right knee had other ideas about leaving and buckled beneath him. This time there was no conveniently close bar stool to prevent Dean from sprawling his length across the bar room floor.

Almost as soon as he hit the dirt, he heard the twin thumps of Jo and Bobby kneeling at either side, grabbing his arms to haul him up. "Geroff," He lashed out, twisting and pushing with his arms until they backed off and then he just rested against the ground, catching his breath until he used one arm to lever himself up. He glared balefully at the pair, "My dad's dead, my brother's a murderer, I'm too fucked up to ever hunt again and you two are having a pissing contest over a map? You know what, fuck you." He edged over until he reached a table leg and then used that to haul himself up to feet. His right knee threatened to buckle again but he just used a limping slide, allowing the momentum of the bend to carry him over until the stride on the left.

He reached the kitchen, poured water into the kettle, switched it to boil and then sank down into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his face in his hands. He felt the cold lines of tear tracks running down his face but he was just too tired to care. The kettle whistled and clicked off and he limped over, spooned granules into the bottom of a mug then splashing in the water, not even noticing when the boiling water lapped up the sides of the mug onto his fingers.

He brought the mug back to the table and cupped his hands around it, too hot to drink but enjoying the tingling burn that the heat spread across his palms. He leant his head down, resting his forehead on the smooth surface of the table and let the tears seep out, no hitching sobs or ceremony, just water chasing itself down his face.

The door opened and closed but Dean didn't bother raising his face. It could only be one of three people: two of which he really didn't want to see right now and a third who had an alarming tendency to wander around naked. The shuffling guilty footsteps told him it was one of the former, the click of heels on linoleum told him it was Jo.

"I'm guessing sorry isn't really going to cut it," Jo started to say and Dean had to choke back a laugh because that's understatement of the month right there. He swiped at his eyes to remove the visible traces of tears, knowing that the stark red rims would give away what he'd been doing anyway.

"You lost the bet then?" Dean croaked out, raising the cooling coffee to his mouth and taking a gulp.

"Rock, paper, scissors actually," Jo replied, taking a seat opposite Dean, "And I won."

"Scissors?"

"Of course." The light hearted moment only lasted a second before Dean dipped his head back towards the table. "Erm," Jo stated, crossing and un-crossing her legs nervously, "Me 'n' Bobby were gonna take another look at the charts, see if we can see anything else if you want to join us." She left the offer open-ended as she stood from the table. She was just in the threshold of the doorway when she paused, turning her head back for a moment, "For what it's worth, I'd never think you're fucked up." A flush coloured her cheeks but she ducked away and was out of the doorway before Dean could answer even if he wanted to.

All Dean wanted to do was rest his head back on the table and go back to pretending just for a while that the rest of the world didn't exist. Instead he needed to think of ways to explain to Jo that that really wasn't what he was looking for at the moment. He had had an idea of her feelings after Sam had let a few things slip post-possession and he had to admit that factored in a large part as to why he hadn't phoned her back.

Somewhere in the back of Dean's mind, there was a scrawled yellow post-it with the words 'Deal with feelings for Jo.' It was mostly covered up by bigger post-its notes saying 'Get Dad out of hell', 'Stop Sammy from turning evil', 'Get Sammy laid by something not evil' (A big brother has his priorities) and finally 'Kill the fucking demon'. Dean knew the second post-it probably needed the word 'more' added but even mentally adding that was far too close to giving up.

"Fucking hell Winchester, snap out of the self-pity," His own voice growled at him and he pushed himself up from the table, legs holding steady beneath him this time. He took the walk back to the bar slowly, wanting no repeat to his undignified fall. Bobby and Jo were seated at one of the tables, peering over one of the maps. Ash had quit feigning sleep at some point and had now joined them, taking his own seat to the side. Jo was just drawing something onto the tracing paper when Dean approached, "What's that?" He noticed the seated trio jump a little and felt a surge of pride that he could still sneak up on people.

"Wiccan symbol for fire." Jo answered, "I, erm, went through a wiccan phase." She admitted to Dean's surprised look.

"I'm pretty sure the demon's weakness isn't fire." Dean said as he eased himself into a seat, leaning his elbows on the table and peering over the man, "And that immolating ourselves isn't a good strategy."

Jo scowled at Dean then hastily tempered her expression to a smile, "Well, no, but it could mean something else. Fire is often representative of stuff in mythology. Like Prometheus giving fire to the mortals could be seen as him enlightening them to the world beyond what the gods wanted them to know." At three pairs of shocked eyes in her direction, she huffed, "I'm not a dumb blonde, you know."

"So, by your logic," Dean said, looking over the outlines on the map, "Fate is trying to enlighten us," He pointed to the fire, "to something about hunters." He motioned to Orion. "Anyone see anything?" Dean kept his hand deliberately obscuring part of the rifle. Whatever it meant, he didn't want anyone else thinking about it. If their last chance had been Sam then he didn't want to know they were screwed.

He noticed Bobby's hand tracking patterns across the grid as the older hunter tried to work out something, not speaking until he was sure. Dean followed the movements, trying to find what the older hunter could see that they couldn't.

"Thirty eight," Bobby cryptically stated and Dean was sure the mechanic took pleasure in flouting his knowledge over the younger trio.

He exchanged looks with Jo and Ash, all three determined not to be the one not to ask. It was two tense seconds away from resorting to Rock, Paper, Scissors when Jo cracked, "What's thirty eight?"

Bobby glanced with an innocent air to the girl and then waved a hand over part of the map, "Roman numerals. Starts here on the sword of Orion and sweeps over to end just before the fire." Dean noted that it was also bisected by the rifle but didn't share that observation.

Jo followed the patterns and nodded, "Great. Hunter, fire, thirty eight. What the hell is thirty eight?"

"Well, it's the sum of the squares of the first three primes," Ash ventured, looking vaguely dazed as he reeled off the figures from his head, "Not to mention the largest even number which can't be expressed as the sum of two odd composite numbers." He noticed the looks he was getting and shrugged, "Neither of which help us defeat the demon, sure, but I thought it was a little cool."

"Maybe the demon is just really crap at algebra?" Dean jested, looking over the map for any other clues, "Must be why he recruited Sammy, he needs geeks." He saw the nervous looks flitting between the other three and wasn't surprised when one of them changed the subject.

"So we assume that the demon put the image of Orion in to taunt us. Fate, God, pick your deity of the week put in the rest of them to try and tell us something." Bobby frowned at the paper, "Is this the only grouping that our celestial entity of choice has added or could there be other clues across the rest of the charts?"

"Possibly," Ash said somewhat sceptically, "I want to take a look at the geological groups again."

"I thought you said they were useless?" Jo said in surprise.

"They were but that's when I thought the demon was planning an all-out attack." Ash said.

Dean frowned, "Why the hell would you think the demon would do an all-out attack? He doesn't exactly seem the type."

"Because I thought he'd killed you," Ash said in a matter-of-fact tone. At Dean's startled look, he explained, "Your family has always had this quest against the demon, right? Most other hunters will drop you a note if they find anything demon related but otherwise ignore it. When the demon got your Dad, Hunters started to take notice, started to think the demon was actually something to worry about. If the demon killed you as well then it'd be a sign that it was willing for the hunters to go after it, that it was ready for the attack." Before Dean had a question to ask the question on his mind, Ash was answering it, "I know. Sam said a werewolf killed you but I once worked out the statistical probability of a Winchester dying of non-Demon related causes and, well, I can't remember the number now and I got seriously stoned and ate the piece of paper but it was pretty damn low."

"Does that mean if I bag the demon, I become immortal?" Dean asks, jovial tone belying his nervousness. It's one thing to know you got a demon on your family's tail, it's another to know that the demon is practically your very own grim reaper. Not to mention that fact that if it was almost statistically impossible for anything but the Demon to kill Dean, it was also almost statistically impossible for Dean to survive beyond the Demon's death. Dean knew there was a reason he hated statistics.

Ash obviously didn't feel like answering the question as he stood from their table and headed back into his room, emerging moments later with another roll of charts. He stretched them out across the other ones and began explaining the key he'd used. Dean mostly ignored him, he didn't need to know what the symbols are yet, he just needed the pattern.

The purple crosses were distracting. Dean kept tracking movement across the map and the purple crosses kept interrupting the process. They don't belong so Dean ignored them, tried to teach his brain not to recognise them. It didn't work perfectly but they don't jar so much anymore.

There's definitely something going on between the white crosses and the orange dots, almost in the playground whisper proto-relationship way. They weren't seen around each other but there's something about them said they were connected, that they were just waiting for your back to turn so they could hook up. Dean quickly counted, the numbers were exactly equal, no third wheels here.

Dean tried to link them up but it wasn't as simple as the closest two. There were two right next to each other but they just didn't feel like they belonged to each other. Two on opposite sides of the map seemed to belong together and Dean wasn't sure what made him think so except for some bone-deep instinct. Dean had grown up watching his father do exactly the same thing so it wasn't surprised to him that a shadow of his Dad's talent had rubbed off.

"What are you looking at?" Jo asked. Dean was currently focused on one little white cross that didn't seem to belong to anything close but was being particularly stubborn about confessing who she did belong to.

"Oh, he's got the John look," Bobby said, his voice quieter than normal, "I've seen John with that look too many times. Usually just before he'd announced you were driving to Florida to exorcise a poltergeist despite the fact what he'd been staring at was a news report on a freak snow storm in Antigua."

Ash snorted, "He'll have luck with this one. I've run it through every algorithm I know and there's nothing. No areas where evil is congregated, no sweeping pattern, it'd make me tear my hair out if it wasn't for the fact, you know, you don't mess with the 'do."

Ash's words managed to filter into Dean's brain and he leaned back, leaving that tricksy white cross to focus on the map as a whole once more. He leant right back against the chair getting as much of the map in vision as was physically position in his current state, "You're right." He said, the sound of his voice sounding a little distant, "Absolutely no overall pattern whatever, spread out evenly. Far too fucking evenly." He turned to look at Ash, eyes still a little out of focus from concentrating, "The bases are loaded and the bastards lining up a home run."

Jo and Bobby's confused mutterings were drowned out by Ash's loud "Fuck!" and then the stoner genius was leant over the map, eyes jumping about and fingers tracing a completely different direction. When Ash lifted his head, it was to look at Dean with a whole new level of respect, "We're so screwed."

"Could you fill in the rest of us so we can all join the panic?" Jo tautly asked.

Ash gestured to Dean to lean the explanation but Dean just self-consciously shook his head, not trusting his still awkward mouth to explain it so Ash took over the explanation, "These spots are everywhere. I guess no-one has been seeing it 'cos they are all different but when you add it all up, there's very little left of America which doesn't have some form of demonic activity. This means when the demon does decide to attack, there's literally nowhere to hide."

"Not quite," Dean interrupted at that point, moving his hand to certain areas, mostly those which had the previously distracting purple cross, "These areas are mostly clear apart from the purple crosses. Might mean they are full of things even the demon wants to avoid but they could be safe havens if we get people there. One thing is for sure, grouping at the road house is the worst thing we could do. We need to spread out as wide as we can stretch or we'll be surrounded."

"I've got a book of hunter contacts or rather I found my mother's hiding place. We should split them up, give them coordinates to get themselves, their families and anyone else they can persuade about the incoming demonic apocalypse to the white spots and start making a base." Jo said.

"What about the other ninety nine percent of the population?" Dean asked.

Jo shrugged, "We persuade who we can and then we make lots of underground routes so that when it happens, we can smuggle as many people to safety as possible." Jo paused and then stood up and heading out to the bar, shuffling some of the bottles until she reached a dark Baileys bottle. She brought it over to the table and then twisted it open, revealing a black covered book curled inside, "Didn't you ever wonder why my mother had a bottle of Baileys at a hunter's bar?" She flicked the pages, "Here, Jeremiah. His ancestors were part of the underground movement to free slaves. They passed knowledge down in case it ever happened again. He could be a good help." Jo went through a few more pages, "Harry and Bill. Twins. Fortification nuts. Both in their seventies but they'll consult."

Dean took hold of the book, leafing through the pages, "Is there anyone your mother didn't know?" He couldn't resist flicking towards the back. There was a single faded ink entry for his father and fresher ones for himself and Sam. His had a red cross to the side and a date: 27th of June, 2007. The day he'd died. The day Sam had killed him. He held the book back out to Jo, not wanting to look at it anymore.

Jo obviously noticed his expression and it didn't take her much work to figure out which entry he was looking at. "Guess we better update that," She said, reaching out for a pen.

Dean gripped her wrist with his good hand, "Don't. Not until this is all over."

"Dean!" Jo protested, "I can't leave you dead."

"You might have to," Dean said and hoped she realised he wasn't just talking about today. Like Ash said, Winchesters may be the best chance of killing the Demon but they won't be walking away from the battle strumming a ukulele. Seeing the angry look in Jo's eyes, he amended his words, "Just until this is all over." And then the only change she'd have to make will be to update the date.

"We'll sort out who gets to write whose epitaph later," Bobby's no-nonsense tone broke in, "How about we start divvying up that list and phoning those hunters before the apocalypse starts?"

* * *

Bobby's idea had been a good one however after the third time Dean started off a phone call with 'Hey, It's Dean Winchester' only to be greeted with a startled gasp and a dial tone he was relegated to just making notes of which hunters they were sending where and trying to make sure each potential outpost had the right mix of people with the appropriate skills.

It was amusing to listen to the other three's varied techniques at getting the hunters to listen. Bobby was all gruff command, telling the hunters where to be and biting down the arguments before they could be formed. Jo was honeyed sweetness, coaxing the hunters into doing what she wanted and then a brittle snap when they tried to sway from her course. Ash was colloquial verbosity, telling the hunters every single bit of the situation, getting them to agree before they even realised they were part of the conversation.

Dean scribbled down a few more names and then got up from the table and headed out towards the bathroom. He didn't really need to go but he didn't need to get away from the trio for a bit. There were only ever two people that Dean had adjusted to being in the constant company of. His father was managed by having defined boundaries of conversation, hunting, emotions. Sam had torn down every boundary Dean had put up and then crossed the line Dean could never follow. He'd go to hell for his brother but to pull him the fuck out, not to join him.

He was only halfway down the hallway when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He lifted it out and didn't care look at the display, afraid that it would be his brother and equally terrified that it wouldn't. Finally he dared to look and the display simply read 'Jo'. He frowned, glancing back to be sure the blonde hunter was still in the bar before pressing the green button to answer.

"S'Dean." He had learnt his lesson after once answering 'Dean Winchester, ass-kicking demon hunter extraordinaire' to a wrong number.

"Hi, this is Jo Harvelle," Jo's distinctive voice said, "I'm contacting you about the oncoming demonic apocalypse."

Dean couldn't stop a smile and he leaned against the wall, "Really? What about it?"

"I happen to have come into possession, oh wait, bad term. I happen to have acquired two front row tickets that I'd be willing to share for a very reasonable price."

"And what would this price be?"

"I'm organising an after-show party and we need a few special guests."

Dean groaned, he should have guessed where the conversation was turning, "I could try and rustle you up some tricksters? I'm fairly sure there's one out there which is a huge fan of me. Oh wait, killed him. I should stop killing my fans."

"I certainly hope you don't kill this one."

"I don't think you can really call yourself a fan."

"How about an admirer?" Jo said and her tone was loaded.

Dean paused, trying to think for once in his life before he spoke to a woman. Words usually came easily but it wasn't just his brain's glitches which were making this difficult, "Maybe once I've finished this tour," was the closest he could come to a reasonable excuse.

"I heard you were planning on retiring from public, and total, life once this gig was over."

"I just don't want to disappoint people with a bad album."

"Better a one-hit wonder than forever unknown."

"Do I have to continue with the corny music references?"

"That depends. Can you say what you are thinking for once?"

Dean paused, "The album cover would have to have an Impala on the front."

He could hear Jo's sigh as a whuff of static and then the sound of footsteps and the scraping draw of a bar stool across the floor, "I've walked away from the others," She said needlessly, "They were starting to give me odd looks. One day I would like to hang around with men where talking about feelings is normal and talking about hunting unholy creatures of the night is abnormal."

"But you haven't found a local gay bar yet?"

Dean could almost hear Jo's scowl which he considered was quite a feat, "Are you planning to exhaust all the cliches in your mind before you'll talk to me?" She snapped, "You know what, call me back when you want to live in tomorrow for a change." The dial tone greeted Dean's ears and he leaned harder against the siding. It would only take five strides to carry him to Jo and the small chance of a happy ending. Dean turned and headed towards the bathroom, happy endings were over-rated.

* * *

A/N: Okay. Next chapter will involve quite a large time jump so I'm warning you now. I figured the intricacies of how the hunters go about establishing the network wouldn't make fascinating reading so for now until I post again, just assume the hunters are busying out trying to get ready and the next chapter, well, we'll find out how successful they were.

Also, this chapter was written looong before AHBL pt 2 however my ever wonderful beta has pointed out some eerie similarities. Well, I was born exactly a month after Sam but the YED hasn't shown up for me yet so who knows? I don't think I'm psychic anyway.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: **The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer: **Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings and notes:**Multiple character death. Dark fic.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.

**Chapter 12**

"Jo! Electric is out again."

It had hardly seemed like something to worry about. The roadhouse had mostly been wired up by Bill Harvelle and, while he was a great hunter, he sucked huge rocks as an electrician.

"So go to the cellar and flip the trip switch!"

"Flashlight ain't working."

That should have been the first sign. Hunters never let flashlight batteries run down. It was just asking for trouble from the things in the dark.

"Use the spare. Do I have to tell you fucking everything?"

"Okay, keep your pants on… Spare's out too."

---

The hunters had thought they were ready. Everything had gone so smoothly to that point. They'd moved most hunters and their families into one of the newly set up White Spot communities, along with assorted others willing to listen. They'd chuckled amongst themselves. Looking forward to the look on the Demon's face when he realised what they'd done. Turns out, the look was a smirk.

"Jo? You got anything electric working there?"

"No."

"Shit."

"You heard of any of the Demon's wunderkind having some electro-pulse power?"

"You watch way too much Heroes. I haven't exactly got the inside scoop here."

"Fine. Call Bobby. Tell him to drag his redneck ass back here with the truck."

"One problem there, Jo."

"What now?!"

"Phone's out."

---

You see, it turns out those classic signs of demonic activity such as flickering lights weren't actually a bizarre side-effect, it was practice. In one sweep, he knocked out the electricity across the board for the entire American continent. The death toll in hospitals alone climbed into the thousands on that first day.

That was just his opening act. They should have twigged it really. After all, if a minor level spirit can come up with how to raise the death toll on planes then the big bastard with a plan would have been able to go one better. He started off simply. Got his minions popping into those already wide-open from fear and uncertainty, a couple of atrocities later they'd whisk out again leaving the previously possessed individual none the wiser until they were beaten to death by those around them.

The hunters tried to spread the word about possessions but all it did was spread the mass panic of never knowing whether your family or your friends were really themselves or a lurking demon. After a while, the Demon didn't even need to send minions out to possess people anymore. People were managing atrocities perfectly well on their own.

---

"Dean, she's dead. Just let her go."

"Let her go? She was my Dad's car. I'm fairly sure I was conceived in her. I was very nearly born in her. I've almost died in her twice and she's saved my life more times than even Sammy could count to. The day I let her go is the day I die."

"Need a hand?"

"Pass me that wrench."

---

That's when the Demon took possession of towns instead. It was easy enough. Just send one of his special kids along to the town, all innocent eyes and tell the town all they had to do was swear allegiance to the demon and they'd be protected. The towns didn't all fall easy but after the rumours started of entire towns wiped out after refusing the offer, many towns opted for the devil they really didn't know at all.

---

"Jo, how's the convoy looking?"

"Short."

"Shit. Just a mile to go. We've got to make this."

"We will. Just keep driving. Look, there's the border."

"We're over. Get everyone out."

"Dean, where the hell are you going?"

"Back."

---

Dean idly cursed as he tried to reload the shotgun, one hand twisting the steering wheel as he kept an eye on the things circling overhead of the dashing refugees. He should have let Jo come along for the drive except for the fact he knew if he'd suggested it, she likely would have cold-cocked him, dumped him out on the damp ground and taken off with his idea and his car.

The kid at the window looked about the same age as Sammy which just about figured for how Dean's luck was running. He motioned the crowd of refugees onward to the border and yanked the wheel around to avoid slamming the car full force into the boy. The boy just smiled an unwholesomely toothy smile and the sinking feeling in Dean's stomach told him he should have just hit him out right.

When the kid's hand touched the car, tiny arcs of blue leapt out from his fingers and Dean felt the creeping memory as the electric current coursed through the metal and into him. He pulled all stray limbs onto the relative safety of the leather seats then pulled out his gun, levelled it at the boy's forehead and fired.

It was hard to say who looked more surprised when the bullet found a home in the centre of the kid's forehead but Dean would have to go with the kid. He toppled backwards from the car, brains and blood painting the ground red. Dean pressed his foot nervously down to the accelerator and headed back to the fight.

---

The hunters may have dismally failed at stopping the take-over but the railroad sprung into place with lightning efficiency. Like its predecessor, music formed a backbone of the railroad. The simplest song sung by a passing traveller could become a warning to flee, a guiding voice to stand their ground, an apology for the sacrifice they would have to make. If the majority of the songs were derivations of mullet rock, no-one cared.

Towns emptied and the safe havens filled. Hunters accepting anyone who could walk through Solomon's key. Networks spread, a few names whispered in ears, people who could be trusted, people who couldn't be possessed. Film stars rubbed shoulders with the tramps they'd scorned on the pavement. The Americas became an island in truth, all contact from the rest of the world cut off. Legends spread of boats arriving on distant shores, ready to carry them off. Those who travelled to the coast found only water spirits and cold, murky deaths.

---

"How are things faring over there?"

"Alright. We've got the Seelie Fae on our side and at least we can twat the unseelie with an iron bar. It makes things easier."

"I bet. Where are this lot headed?"

"The HMS Thunderchild will dock in Australasia."

"Australasia?"

"Yeah. Between the Maoris rediscovering that they are warriors after all and the Aboriginal dreamtime, it's about the safest place out there. We'll be back in a few weeks."

"Good. This place ain't safe anymore. We got nothing."

"Surely your Indians are helping out."

"Dude, we invaded their territory and carved presidents into their mountain. There's nothing left except a bunch of graveyards more likely to bite us in the ass than them."

"You coming on the boat then?"

"Nah. Gotta be the last man standing. Sail safe."

"Keep safe."

---

The HMS Thunderchild was never seen again.

They forged new legends from the chaos. Stories of a low purr in the middle of the night, a sleek dark shape, running not on gas but on aspirations and dreams. Its headlights were made of the light of angels and it repelled demons from its back. Its engine growled with the fury of a thousand hell-trapped souls. From its speakers the music of freedom blared, the fine melody bright amongst the bleakness.

The Impala drove across America and hope clung in its wake.

* * *

"I miss coffee," Dean complained, leaning against the hood of the Impala and soaking up the sunshine as if that could drive the tiredness out of his bones, "I mean, that was the first clue we were really screwed. Fuckers took all the coffee. It's just not fair. You wait until the climax of the episode to bring out the Kryptonite, you don't show your cards in the opening teaser."

Jo looked up from her own spot, crouched against a wheel, using the shiny black car as some protection from the heat, "You know what's good for tiredness? Sleeping."

"Who'd drive the car while I slept?" Dean asked.

"Erm, me?"

"Let you drive my baby? Things aren't that damn desperate," Dean said, smirking as Jo walked right into the trap he'd laid. "Did you say the town ahead was abandoned early? Maybe their general store might still have coffee." Dean's eyes gleamed the closest to joy that they had been for a long time and he stretched again, the audible pop of muscles followed by the flicking twitch of his right leg that had only got more pronounced in recent months.

"Don't make me threaten to ditch the Impala again. We should pick up another car far cheaper and maybe not have to stockpile the remaining gas so far."

"Too late now. My baby is a symbol all on her own." Dean patted the black hood and hissed at the heated metal against flesh.

"Bobby said pure essentials on this trip, in and out."

"Coffee is essential," Dean protested, "Bobby is just sour 'cos he knows there's a snowball's chance in hell of us finding any beer. Though admittedly a snowball'd stand a better chance now the whole fucking place is empty."

"Five minute rest break is up," Jo said without needing to look at her watch. It had stopped about a month ago anyway and she wore it purely because it had been a present from her mother. "Let's get this over and done with. I don't want another lecture from Bobby for being late."

"Really? 'cos I just love the challenge of seeing if I can actually make him foam at the mouth." Dean stood from the Impala's hood and made his way back to the driver's seat, "So what are our targets? Just the store?"

Jo scowled, "Could you just once, as a favour to me, actually read the mission brief? Yes, just the store. I've got a list of the Needs, Wants and Wouldn't it be nice ifs."

"Why would I need to when I've got my trusty sidekick to do it for me?"

Jo's only reply was a scowl.

It was only about an hours drive until they passed the welcome sign into the town. Dean didn't bother noting the names anymore. If a town dies in the wilderness and nobody cares, did it still have a name? The streets were littered with the debris of a rapid exit: abandoned cars clogging the sidewalk, suitcases just left standing when they'd been too heavy to carry in the rush. Dean stopped the car outside the store and grabbed canvas bags out of the trunk, tossing one to Jo.

Nobody had bothered even trying to lock the store door so Dean just swung the door open. The rancid scent of rotting foods assailed him almost instantly but he'd steeled himself against that by now, only the twitch of his gag reflex remaining. He headed straight for the tinned goods, those most likely to still be good, and started to load the canvas sack up with the new staples of a hunter's diet.

Jo walked in a minute behind him and turned a shade of green at the smell. She headed straight for the small pharmacy that the store had, filling the sack with Tylenol, Ibuprofen and the other medications they were in desperate need of. Sadly there was very little of actual use, mostly just weak painkillers, cold remedies and condoms. Jo shovelled it all into the sack along with some of the mouldy loaves of bread. Penicillin or any sort of antibiotic was desperately required.

"Heading out, ninety two" Jo called across to Dean. In these mistrustful days, the moment someone left your sight, there were liable to be a different person by the time they walked back in. That was why the hunters had conceived an elaborate system of sign and counter-sign.

Dean nodded to acknowledge that he'd heard and headed back to the task of filling the canvas sack as full as he could carry with tins. He frowned at the sudden appearance of a strange smell in the room, the underlying odour of wet dog hair permeating even though the rancid, thick air. It was when the first can trembled in his hand that he realised he was in trouble. He reached into his pocket, fingers fumbling across the bottle of pills in his pocket. They span out of his hand before he could pop the lid off. He bent to try and grasp them, trying to fight off the fit by willpower alone.

It was a battle he was losing before he even began fighting and he was unable to straighten before the shudders took over and he was sprawled next to the shelving on his back, unable to make any conscious movement. One of the cans had rolled under his back and every convulsion slammed him down onto it where he was sure it would bruise.

He heard the creak of the door open and Jo's voice called out "I spy with my little eye." Dean would have laughed if he'd been capable. That was the correct sign which meant at least he didn't have a possessed Jo to add to his problems. He could hear the pause of footsteps before Jo called out more than a little worried, "Dean?"

Dean was unable to make a sound but fortunately his body was capable of making enough on his behalf. The clatter of shelves when one violent arch of his body slammed him into the set of shelves, showering him in a rain of baked beans.

"Dean!" The clatter of shoes carried Jo around the corner and he heard her gasp as she spotted him. His wide open eyes saw her slide to her knees next to him and the touch of her slender hand against his forehead, "It's alright. I'm here." Dean assumed that Jo thought seizures somehow rendered him down on the mental age of five. He'd correct her if he could. Instead he felt himself fade out.

When he came back around, it took a long time to re-orient himself. His body ached like he'd been running all day and he felt his mind sliding away from every thought that he tried to have. He felt a hand on his forehead and jerked away before he managed to look up and see Jo's concerned face watching over him, "Dean?" Her voice was small, unusually quiet.

"Hey," Dean tried to sit up but his body was not being cooperative. Jo's hands pushed him back down and that was humiliating enough, "Guess I had a seizure?" His memory felt a bit fuzzy as it had before from the few seizures he'd had before.

"You could say that." Jo said, levering Dean up a little to rest against the shelves, "How are you feeling?"

"Strangely enough like I had a massive seizure and a load of cans fell on me." Dean rubbed a thumb on his temple, "How long have I been out of it?"

"You stopped shaking about six minutes ago," Jo said, "Then you were just out of it a bit. Is that normal?"

Dean shrugged, "It's not like I have much experience, just a few in the hospital before they figured out the right meds and most of that was just the staff telling me I'd had one. I was too doped up to tell." He could see the worry lines forming on Jo's face, "It's probably normal. As much as normal exists these days."

"Come on, let's get you into the car and then I can finish up here." Jo offered an arm down to Dean.

Dean swallowed his pride and used Jo's arm to get himself up to his feet. He wavered unsteadily, his legs trembling unsteadily beneath him. The progress out to the car was slow but when he spotted Jo taking him around to the passenger seat, he shook his head. "Drivers," He mumbled.

"Dean!" Jo said, her exasperated tone back in her voice, "You can not drive. You just had a seizure."

"Noticed that," Dean pouted, "I'll be fine by the time you are done." He was hoping the fact that he'd conceded on helping out with the rest of the stock meant that he could win something else.

"I'll see what you are like when I'm done." Jo said, "Heading out, forty seven."

Within five minutes of Jo leaving, Dean was bored. It wasn't like the old days when he could keep the motor running and blast his music out, gas was too precious and rare. He tried using the time to massage out some of the cramps in his legs however his arms were sore enough that he couldn't do it for long.

They'd cycled through 'When I was child // I caught a fever' 'If it wasn't for bad luck // I wouldn't have no luck at all' and 'The only way is up // If you are stuck down a well.' Dean sometimes wished that not all the sign and countersign were based on song lyrics even if that was mostly his own fault .

Jo finally slid into the passenger seat but she twisted to face Dean, "How are you feeling?"

"Great," Dean said perkily. "Absolutely wonderful."

"Truthfully?"

"Like crap," Dean admitted. "But I can drive."

Jo frowned, "I don't like it but I don't think I could stop you. You sure you aren't about to have another seizure?"

Dean bobbed his head, "The doctors said more than one seizure a month would be incredibly unusual. On the plus side, this means that I am pretty safe for the next thirty days."

"One way to look at it. Never picked you for an optimist." A frown that had been threatening Jo's face for a while spread fully onto her face, "Why did you have a seizure anyway? I thought the medication would help with that."

"It does," Dean said too quickly.

"Give me the bottle!" Her tone flipping from concern to anger without a moment's notice.

"Come on Jo, there's no reason."

"Give me the fucking bottle."

Dean handed over the bottle and saw the look on Jo's face when gave it a rattle and then looked inside, "Jo…"

"There are five pills left. Five! That's five days before you'd need more. Didn't you think this merited a mention?"

Dean knew there was no way he could avoid getting into further trouble so he just did his best slightly cocky grin, "Must've slipped my mind."

Something in Dean's tone must have made Jo suspicious or maybe she just knew him too well as her eyes narrowed, "Did you take one this morning?"

Dean winced, "Erm. _This_ morning?"

"This morning! As in approximately ten hours before now. Did you take one this morning?" She glanced down at the pills again, "Did you take one yesterday morning? Or the morning before that? When was the last time you took one of these fucking pills?"

Dean decided truth was the best option, "Two weeks ago."

Truth was apparently not the best option as Jo exploded, "Two weeks ago? They are supposed to be one a day. What part of ONE. A. DAY. is so difficult to grasp?"

"The bit where there's only five left." Dean tried for humour.

And failed. "Exactly why you should have mentioned it. These should have been put to the top of the Needs list weeks ago."

"Because well-stocked pharmacies are so abundant at the moment."

"I would have found one." Dean didn't miss the switch to singular.

"I'll just start work on the stables then." At Jo's non-plussed look, he added, "For all the horses those wishes are going to bring us."

"I'm laughing on the inside," Jo deadpanned. "If we're going, we better get going. God knows Bobby will be pissed enough at us disrupting his timetable."

* * *

The argument restarted as the Impala pulled up outside the White Spot currently host to the main rebellion base. Dean tried to persuade Jo to let him help with carrying stuff in. It ended up with Dean carrying the lightest bag in while Jo sorted out the rest.

As soon as Dean walked into the main room, Bobby spoke up, "You're late."

"You're ugly. Oh wait, I thought we were playing that state the fucking obvious game again." Dean handed his canvas bag off to a waiting helper who frowned at the weight and then immediately gave Dean a pitying look as if she could guess what had happened.

"This isn't your own personal leisure club," Bobby growled, glaring over at the Winchester. "There are timetables for a fucking reason."

"Want to know what my Dad says about REMFs?" Dean asked, trying to disguise the waver in his stance.

"I could tell you what he thought about Bravo Foxtrots."

"Fuck you!" Dean hissed, furious beyond measure at Bobby's implication.

"Ah, there's the mature, well-reasoned response I expected from you."

"Oh please wise master Bobby, enlighten me to how the world works." Dean snarled, trying to keep from tipping over.

"One more stunt like this and I'm benching you." Bobby threatened.

"You try and bench me and I'm taking myself and the Impala out of here and you won't see me for dust." Dean knew that was practically giving himself a death sentence.

"God damn you and anyone stupid enough to follow you."

Dean saw the helper who'd taken his bag saunter over and for one dreaded moment, he thought she was going to spill what she knew to the entire room, instead she just took a casual spot just in elbow range and wiggled her shoulder. It took Dean a short while to figure it out and when he decided, he decided he was going to need to get her something seriously nice on the next outing.

"You trying to upset my friends here, Bobby?" He said, casually leaning against the server, trying to make it look like an amiable gesture rather than the support he needed. He still couldn't lean his full weight on her but just the slight help was enough to stop him toppling to the floor.

Whatever response that Bobby was about to make was changed when Jo finished gathering supplies from the car and walked in with the canvas sack slung over her shoulder. Bobby glanced towards her and curled his lip, "Oh look, Mommy's here to get your back."

Dean could see what was coming and would have warned Bobby if he hadn't been pissed at the man. Jo dropped her canvas sack on the ground, reached one of the metal cans out of it and without hesitation threw it right at Bobby's head, "What the fuck do you think you are doing?"

The helper obviously thought Jo was referring to her. Persistent rumours had batted about Dean and Jo's 'relationship' despite Dean's frequent denials. She immediately stepped back and the sudden lack of support very nearly sent Dean sprawling to the ground.

Bobby barely got out of range of full impact, taking a glancing blow which drew a slice along his forehead, "What the hell was that for?" He yelled.

"I spend every fucking minute of every fucking day trying to persuade this fucking idiot to accept help when he fucking needs it and then you go and make a comment as mind-numbingly stupid as that? You are lucky I didn't throw the whole fucking bag."

"I was just having a word with Dean about why he was late," Bobby still looked a little dazed, whether it was from the blow from the can or Jo's tirade was unclear.

Jo turned her furious gaze on Dean, "And I suppose you didn't happen to mention the reason we were late?"

"It didn't come up." Dean said.

Jo was too shades of red away from explosion, "We were late.." She hissed out between her teeth, "Because Dean here had another seizure and the reason he had a seizure is because the martyr-of-the-month didn't bother letting us know he only had five Dilantin left and had been stretching them out to last. You may recall these pills are one a day. Why don't you tell the nice man when the last time you took one was, Dean?"

"Two weeks ago," Dean mumbled.

Jo just looked at Bobby and then turned to glare back at Dean, "And why are you still standing? I thought I ordered you to rest." When Dean didn't make a move fast enough, Jo strode over, grabbing a chair on her way and slamming it into the back of Dean's knees, forcing him back onto the seat where she grabbed his shoulder in case he even thought of moving.

Bobby looked guilty and he once again resembled the friend that Dean knew, "Why didn't you mention anything?"

"Because he's Dean," Jo answered on his behalf.

"I'm fine. Just a slight slip-up with the meds." Dean grumped, trying to shrug Jo's hand off him.

"Uh-huh. And what about that one slip-up which leads to a crash?"

"A crash? The roads are pretty empty these days, that's not exactly likely to happen."

"I meant your body, not your car."

"Next time, be more clear. The car is still a little wound up from the incident with the T-R-U-C-K." Dean glanced out towards the parking lot.

"Was he ever sane before the whole apocalypse?" Jo asked Bobby, forgetting for the moment that she was mad at him.

"Rarely," Bobby drolly answered. "Look, I've got Marco on his way back from a long supply run tomorrow. I'll see if he can't find a pharmacy and get you some more meds."

Dean wanted to frown. He'd been looking forward to meeting up with Marco again but he knew the other hunter would be the one most likely to be able to track down what he needed especially as the other hunter had a habit of moving heaven and hell to help Dean. He acted like an over-protective older brother despite the fact he was at least ten years younger than Dean.

Bobby chuckled at the expression forming on Dean's face, "I'm sure your buddy will be back for you to play with before long."

That shifted Dean's expression from a frown to a scowl, "What's it with everyone treating me like I'm five again?"

"Wouldn't treating you like you were five involve dragging you from motel to motel to hunt demons?" Bobby said. "And maybe it is because people are committing the hideous sin of actually being," Bobby faked a gasp. "Concerned about you and maybe even wanting to look after you."

"Don't need looking after," Dean considered that his argument would probably go better if he didn't use the sulking child voice, "What I mean is, I don't like being looked after."

"I made you a deal long time ago that if you looked after yourself, I wouldn't try to look after you." Bobby said gently, "You aren't keeping up your end of it." When Dean's opened his mouth to protest, Bobby just barrelled on, "What happens if you'd had that seizure while you were driving? While Jo was in the car relying on you to keep her safe?"

Jo hissed her protest at the low blow but Bobby looked unapologetic, just kept his focus on Dean. Dean tried to avoid looking at him but realised that he had to face up, "I would've pulled over in time."

"Uh-huh," Bobby said, "You realise that before the apocalypse most states wouldn't even let you drive if they knew you had seizures and those that did would likely make you wait at least six months after a seizure before you could drive again?"

"You realise in olden times there were a heck of a lot more cars to crash into." Dean pointed out.

"And considerably less demons to worry about," Bobby retorted.

"This argument is pretty academic. Even I do take the pills then in five days, I run out and run the risk of seizure or I continue stringing the pills out and run the risk of seizure. Frankly 'possible seizure' ranks right quite low compared to 'demonic takeover' and 'fratricidal brother.'"

"Or you could trust in Marco to find you some pills," Jo pointed out softly.

Dean laughed, "I trust Marco with my life and beyond but that doesn't mean he can pull a rabbit out of his hat. Even if he manages to find some then chances are they'll only be a hundred at the most. That's three months until we get to play the drug scavenger hunt again if I follow your rules."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Bobby said, his tone broking no argument.

"Meanwhile you need to get some sleep," Jo and Bobby arguing was often awkward but it was nothing compared to the rare occasions when the two of them agreed.

Dean ran through all of the arguments that he could think of and finally grouched, shifting out of Jo's grip and staggering up to his feet. "Wake me up when Marco gets here." He mumbled and made his way towards the room that served as his home, sliding beneath the covers without bothering to get undressed and falling straight to sleep.

A/N: The HMS Thunderchild is an homage of Jeff Wayne's musical version of 'War of the Worlds' I always thought Thunderchild's song was one of the most evocative of the album.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title: **The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer: **Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings and notes: **Multiple character death. Dark fic.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.

**Chapter 13**

Dean was catnapping in the main room when Marco returned; two days later than he should have and sporting a black eye and fourteen stitches. Dean heard the door open but didn't bother looking up from where he sat, leaning back on a chair, eyes closed, chin tucked to his chest and legs up on the table.

As it turned out, that was a mistake as only a brief rattling served as warning before he was hit squarely between the eyes by his new bottle of pills. The impact combined with his startled flail was enough to tip the chair backwards and Dean and chair hit the ground with a solid thump.

"Polo! Shit, sorry man." Marco offered a hand up to the felled Winchester, "I was sure you'd catch them."

"Reaction times still a little off." Dean yanked himself up off the tension in Marco's arm and was promptly manhandled into the nearest chair.

"Bobby mentioned in his message you'd been doing the amazing vibrating Winchester impression again." Marco studied his friend's face, making sure he was okay and then cuffed up on the upside of the chin, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I think I was thinking I wanted to go and play outside with all the other boys, Mom," Dean snarked before noticing Marco's irritated expression. "Fine. I was trying to make sure I had a reserve in case shit hits the fan... again. I just figured a seizure within the walls of the White Spot wouldn't be that serious. It's not like we can just nip down the pharmacy and pick up some more pills each time I run out."

Marco grabbed a nearby chair and span it around to straddle the seat, arms resting on the back, facing Dean, "You realise what a seizure is, Polo? Your brain is practically electrocuting itself?"

"Eugh, electrocution is not fun."

"Why am I not surprised you've been electrocuted before? Seizures are temporary abnormal electro-physiologic phenomena of the brain, resulting in abnormal synchronization of electrical neuronal activity. You get what that means, right? Seizures are your brain fucking itself up."

"Did you eat an encyclopaedia while you were out there?"

"Yes, it was chewy delicious." Marco deadpanned. "So you missed me?"

"Of course," Dean said, grinning at Marco's surprised expression. "I was a day away from being force-fed another one of Jefferson's concoctions."

"Didn't the last one put you in a coma for a week?"

"And the one before that made me throw up continually for twenty four hours. The vomiting wasn't so bad. It was the stomach ache that lasted four days afterwards which was hell."

"Has anyone considered the possibility Jefferson is working for the other side?" Marco wasn't serious but he pitched his tone quiet in case. Accidentally overheard jests had caused trouble before.

"If he was, he'd be trying to take out Bobby, not me."

"Pfft. You are practically our very own five star General."

Dean snorted, "I think I prefer the ranks Ash made up."

"I don't think Stoner, Chief Stoner etc are confidence inspiring. When's Ash back from the other White Spot anyway?"

"Because I'm sure in this post-apocalyptic paradise, people are still sternly disapproving of drugs," Dean smirked. "Ash'll be back in a few days to spout the latest statistics on just how far up the creek without a paddle we are."

"You'd be surprised at how normal people try to make this world," Marco pointed out. "You should see the long runs that I made, I sometimes sneak into some of the captured towns and man, you should see it. All these idiots wandering around the town like everything is normal, ignoring the fact that there are demonic forces ruling where they live."

"I've said it before. Demons I get, people are just damn odd." Dean popped the pill bottle open and peered down at the contents, "How many in here?"

"Dunno. Source said about thirty. I want to get them tested first."

"Thought all your sources were reliable."

"He usually is which is why the fact he was acting edgy is all the more suspicious. I just don't want a repeat of last time."

The last time that Dean had ended up with a batch of spiked pills, they'd been laced with LSD. Bobby had ended up strapping him down from the bed to stop him racing around the camp chasing after butterflies. It had been amusing to the group right up until the drugs messed with his brain chemistry and sent him into a full grand mal seizure. They'd had to hastily loosen the restraints before he ripped his arm out of its socket. As it was, Dean ended up with black and blue bruises where the leather straps had been and a dislocated shoulder.

"I'm sure no-one does," was all Dean said. "You gonna go check it out?"

"Yep. Going to head back out in a few days. Take a few more people and if it looks like he's about to turn tail then we clean out his stock. Fancy tagging along? I'm sure he's got some more Dilantin hidden there."

"If my mommy and daddy will let me," Dean joked. "Only fair I help out with all the trouble to get my stupid pills."

"Mommy and Daddy, eh? What does that make me? The cool uncle."

"You know you are at least a decade younger than me, right?"

"Physically but not mentally, old man. What else could I be?" They both knew younger brother was off limits.

"What's wrong with cousins?"

"Sounds crap. I'd rather be a cool uncle," Marco stated. "So did you take one of your stupid pills this morning?"

Dean darted his eyes away, "Of course."

"Really?" Marco sounded sceptical. Dean figured he probably deserved that given his recent behaviour. It didn't make it fair. It wasn't like Dean had fucked with his health just for a laugh, his reasons were sound.

"Don't you start!" Dean exclaimed, leaning back against his chair, "It's bad enough having Bobby and Jo count the contents of my pill jar every morning. I agreed to take one a day of my remaining supply and then sort it out from there."

"I'll expect you to take one a day if you come on this mission with me. I don't like my co-pilots getting twitchy."

"Who you calling a co-pilot?" Dean poked the other man. "Five minutes ago I was a five star general."

"Life's a wheel. Lifts you up, grinds you down."

"Very poetic." Dean snorted.

"Thanks. I read it in a fortune cookie."

Dean put on his most serious face, "There's something very important we do need to talk about though." He paused just long enough for Marco to look apprehensive, "What are the latest rumours about me and the Impala?"

"Please don't encourage him," Dean hadn't heard Jo enter the room but she sauntered over to the friends, pulling herself a chair and joining them.

Marco just smirked, "The latest rumour, helped in no way by me this time, is that the Impala is driven by an angel cast out of heaven for wanting to help out the hunters."

Dean clapped a hand to his side and laughed, ignoring the protestations from his sore muscles, "Angel? Must be thinking of my co-pilot here." He leaned over to ruffle Jo's hair in a way he knew she hated.

Jo predictably slapped his hand away and tried to smooth her hair back down, "You know the whole me letting you get away with shit just because you were an invalid is going to stop soon."

"And then you'll just let me get away with stuff because I'm so damn adorable?" Dean said, turning his best smile on Jo.

"That stopped working on me about six months ago." Jo said but Dean could see the tell-tale twitch by her eye and the flare of red on the tips of her cheeks that provoked an answer stab of guilt in Dean. Dean was all too aware of Jo's 'feelings' for him but any possibility of a relationship had come to a grinding halt with the start of the invasion and the dramatic shift of priorities. Dean had tried to cease any flirting with her but old habits were hard to break..

Marco clapped Dean on the shoulder, "As much fun as it is watching you two crazy kids dance around each other, I need to go hit the shower." Marco stood up, grabbing his carry-bag from where he'd dropped it on the floor after Dean's backwards tumble.

"I was gonna say something," Dean smirked. Marco just flipped him off and headed out of the room.

"So me and Marco are gonna go raid a pharmacy, wanna tag?" Dean said in the awkward silence left in Marco's wake.

"Maybe we should spend some time apart," Jo said, glancing down at the ground. "It's not like you and Marco need me for a job like that and I think Bobby is letting things slip around here. He could use a woman's touch."

"Where you gonna find one of them?" Dean teased, "Look what Marco said…"

"Is absolutely true but we're not likely to do anything about it until you finally decide your own life rates above everything else in the world which should be about the time of the end of the world so if you could just give me a call when that happens?" Jo didn't appear to pause for breath at all.

Dean knew better than to make empty promises, "Will do." He said awkwardly and then stood, feeling a stiff ache in his limbs from the tumble. "I'm going to go get my stuff together ready to go out. I guess I'll see you in a few weeks."

* * *

It turned out the pills weren't one hundred percent Dilantin but fortunately the other fifty odd percent was just chalk dust so they were safe enough to take, just not as effective. By the time Marco, Dean and a couple of others returned to the contact, he'd cleared out, taking the majority of his stock with him and leaving a few booby traps behind.

The booby traps left one of their companions dead, Marco with a broken leg and Dean with a new scar running down his thigh. It was too far to make it back to the main White Spot so they ended up holing up in one of the smaller ones.

It was presided over by the chief medic who almost happened to be a sour-faced old man who had a grudge against the younger generation of hunters and Dean Winchester in particular judging by the way he enjoyed poking and prodding jagged slice on Dean's leg. Fortunately it missed all of the muscles and just left his leg a bit stiffer than normal. He ended up having to leave after a month while Marco stayed to recuperate.

The biggest problem was that Dean's supply of pills was swiftly running low. He'd been taking one every day for the first part of the mission then after his injury when he was delirious, the rebellion members caring for him fed him one a day. When Dean was recovered enough, he tried to string them out but the doctors just found more and more sneaky ways to trick him into having them.

Things were busy back at the headquarters and Dean found himself missing Marco's jibes and jokes more than ever. More attempts to take out of the Demon's lieutenants failed. No matter how cunningly they planned and how few other people they told, they always seemed to know they were coming. Paranoia ran rife through the rebellion, everyone suspected of betraying them. Every day reports came in of more defectors, giving up the hopeless cause.

Dean memorised the names every day and made a note to confront those cowards if he ever saw them.

More worrying that the list of deserters was the list of hunters who were just going missing. The one thing the rebellion had been truly successful at was having eyes and ears just about everywhere who had reported back on the defectors. There was a growing list of hunters who had left the rebellion and not been seen since.

It was a cold winter evening when one of them showed up.

* * *

Snow storms had been playing complete havoc with all of the rebellion activities so most of the forces were locked up inside the White Spot. A large proportion of those were sat inside the Roadhouse as the main bar had been informally known. Jo was taking a note from the old days and was dashing about the room serving drinks. Dean had the central table and was entertaining all the hunters with tales about the old days, only partly fabricated.

There was no warning when the door swung open and Esme stepped in. All the hunters knew her face now as one of the missing so it was a matter of seconds before every gun in the room was cocked in her direction. She stepped into the room then froze and peered up at the Solomon's key depicted above her. Her eyes turned to coal black, "Well, That's pesky."

"Don't shoot," Dean ordered, swinging his chair to face the door. "It's still Esme in there."

"Not for much longer," The demon said in Esme's voice before lifting up the bottom of her t-shirt to reveal a jagged slice that went from one side of her abdomen to the other, blood seeping slowly out. "It's her own fault," The demon inhabiting Esme's shell said. "He saw what she tried to do and he was not pleased."

"He who?" The question was echoed from various voices in the room.

The demon turned Esme's head to face directly at Dean, "First Lieutenant." The man formerly known as Dean's little brother.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bobby growled, his rifle held rock-steady on the figure in the doorway. "What the hell did Esme try to do?"

Dean already knew. The events of almost nine months ago had never really faded from his mind. Waking up with a gun pointed at your head was hardly something you just forgot. He and Esme had never talked again about it except for a brief conversation where Dean made it clear that he wasn't about to hold the incident against her and Esme mostly apologised.

He mentally ran through the list of missing hunters and inwardly cursed. He should have seen the connection earlier. All of the missing were hunters that had threatened him at some point. Unsurprisingly, he didn't feel like revealing that information, not just for the impressive size of the list.

The demon wasn't about to give him an easy ride as it turned to face Dean, "He knows."

A lot of faces turned towards Dean but none were particularly suspicious. Dean had earned his place in the rebellion a thousand times over and the fact he was related to Sam Winchester now just brought pity, not suspicion.

Dean made a show of inspecting his fingernails before speaking, seeking higher ground for this conversation but rapidly feeling like he was standing on the crest of an avalanche, "I have a suspicion but no idea how Sam knew." Most of the rebellion only called Sam First Lieutenant these days, refusing to acknowledge that Sam had once been one of them. Dean refused to call him the First Lieutenant as if that was too much of an admittance that his brother couldn't be saved.

The demon chuckled, the voice pitched lower than Esme's natural tones, "You haven't worked it out by now? First Lieutenant always knows. Why do you think your pathetic little attempts to kill the other lieutenants always fail?"

"Sam's death visions," Dean blurted out without thinking. "That's how you know? He saw how they could die?" The idea that Sam would betray the hunters to that level was like a stab in the gut, they'd lost dozens to the attempts, hunters that Sam knew, friends.

It didn't take long for the significance of that to sink it but it was Jo that connected the dots all the way, "Esme tried to kill you?" She asked in a shocked voice.

"A long time ago," Dean excused Esme's actions. "And before she understood the whole situation."

"I always knew she was nervous around you. I just figured she had a crush." Jo said.

"Enough of the soap opera," The demon complained, "I'm here to deliver a message from the First Lieutenant. He wants you all to know that he wants his brother back and he'll kill anyone that gets in his way. You have a week before he'll send the next one of your hunters back to you." Before anyone had any time to comment, Esme's head tipped back and a stream of black smoke came out of her mouth, coiling away into the air.

The black seeped away from Esme's eyes, turning them back to hazy green and she clutched her hands to her stomach, watching the blood seep over her fingers, quickening now without the demonic presence holding it back. "What?" She asks, sounding like a lost little girl.

Dean was the first to regain the use of his muscles, ironic as that was, and he dashed over to Esme, catching her just as her knees gave way under her. "Hey there," He said, sweeping his hand to push her long hair out of her eyes, "I'm so sorry. I never wanted this."

She blinked up at him once, twice and then was gone. Body turned nerveless and eyes lifeless. Dean stood, Esme's body lolling in his arms, which turned out not to be the best idea as searing pain shot through his still recovering leg, turning his vision to scattershot white. He felt someone take Esme from him and then arms guided him back to a chair.

"You okay, Dean?" Jo's familiar voice asked at his ear.

"Fine," Dean lifted his eyes to Jo as his vision cleared once more, wondering if they looked as dead as he felt. "What could be wrong?'

"Esme's not your fault," Jo glanced around, most of the group had since dispersed or moved off to other corners to the bar to discuss events. "None of this is."

"Funny because that demon disagreed with you," Dean said, rubbing at his shoulder. "Either way, I guess the decision is made for me."

"You can't honestly be thinking of going to Sam? You'd be the last person I'd pick to turn deserter."

"I'm fairly sure Sam only wants me so he can kill me then put me back together better, stronger, faster so it's hardly deserting and at least this way if I do get Sam, it'll give us a fighting chance."

"And by get Sam you mean?" Dean had a feeling that Jo already knew what it meant but was just trying to make sure.

"Save him or kill him, just like I promised." Just saying those words made Dean feel overwhelmingly tired.

"Dean, you don't have to do this."

And Dean wanted to laugh in that moment, "I don't? Excellent, I'll just stay home, shall I? While the demons kill each of the hunters they've captured and then who next? You? Bobby? Ash? Marco? Random people who make the mistake of crossing their paths sent to the White Spot to die?" He turned his head down to Jo and spoke again low and soft, "What do you think would happen if I took a quick poll of the people in this room? Do you honestly think it'd come out in my favour?"

"We need you," Jo says, matching her tone to his. "A living, breathing fighter, not a pointless martyr. God knows we've enough of them."

"But if what the demon says is true, I'm more of a liability than an asset at the moment. Every time I put myself in a situation where I could die, Sam is going to see it and he's going to tell them."

"You could just stop putting yourself into situations where you might die. Become a stay-at-home general like Bobby."

"I think I'd rather die," Dean said drolly but truthfully.

"Does it sound like I'm giving you that option?"

Dean turned to glare at Jo, "Do I need you to give me options? Last time I checked, I'm my own person."

"No, you aren't," Jo disagreed, "You aren't since the first meeting we agreed to use the Impala as a symbol of the rebellion, you belong to the rebellion now and we don't give you permission to go out and get yourself killed in a completely moronic fashion."

"How about a perfectly sensible fashion?" Dean asked then frowned, "That didn't come out right. All I know is that I have to stop Sam, he's my responsibility."

"You can't take responsible for what he's doing," Jo sounded exasperated over the old argument.

"Can't I?" Dean said, equally frustrated with Jo's refusal to understand. "He's my little brother and I didn't notice what was happening to him until it was too late. I promised my Dad… I promised him that I'd watch out for him and I failed." Dean suddenly felt like the exertions of the previous month caught up with him all at once and he turned with half-lidded eyes to Jo, "Can't we just discuss this in the morning?"

Jo didn't look like she wanted to back down but finally saw the sense in acquiescing. Dean stood and headed towards his bed. In his head he was already making plans. Come the morning, he'd be sat in the Impala on the road to where he needed to be.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: **The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Author: **Wysawyg

**Summary: **Sam Winchester was beginning to wonder whether the demon had forgotten his plans for him. Sam Winchester had forgotten that the demon played a long game. Dark!fic. Multi-chapter. Not WIP.

**Disclaimer: **Everything the light touches belongs to someone else. The darkside too. It's all Kripke and the guys and gals at the CW.

**Warnings and notes:**Multiple character death. Dark fic.

**Timeline: **Diverges AU from season 2. Approximately after Born under a Bad Sign but before Heart.

**Beta: **Beta'd by the wonderful TraSan who is a wonderful writer and beta but does torture flame-retardant ducks hence proving that no-one is perfect.

**Feedback: **Makes the hamsters in my head dance, especially concrit.

**Author's Notes: **The final chapter. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with the fic this far. I hope the chapter lives up to expectations. Another huge, huge thanks to TraSan who beta'd this monstrosity!

I'm currently way behind on replying to feedback thanks to busy work and I'm heading off for a fortnight to Corfu come Monday so it's unlikely I'll be catching up anytime soon but I promise I will catch up and I am grateful for every single comment!

**Chapter 14**

When Dean woke up in the morning to find a gun pointed at his head, he realised that his day wasn't going to go quite as planned. The reason he wasn't particularly worried was that it was Jo pointing it at his head. At his startled expression, she just cocked her head to one side and asked, "Did you really think I wouldn't figure out what you were planning to do?"

"Who says I'm planning to do anything?" Dean asked, his voice sleep muzzy. The only thing Dean planned to do at that moment was get it through people's heads that he liked to be woken up with coffee, not guns. You'd think that'd be an uncommon mistake to make.

"Your eyes did," Jo said. "You gave in far too easily and I saw your eyes shift up to the right. You've gotten a lot worse at hiding the fact you are lying recently."

"Out of practice," Dean said with a shrug, pulling himself up to lean against the headboard. "You do realise this is probably being broadcast on SammyVision? Is this your grand plan to make him come after you?" Jo didn't even flinch, "Except, of course, Sam only sees when people might kill me and I don't think you'd actually kill me. Might shoot me a little."

"If that's what it takes to stop you marching out and getting yourself killed," Jo said, utterly blasé, moving the gun's aim from Dean's head to his stomach.

"Why not go for a kneecap? That'd permanently fuck me up. Especially if you went for the left, seeing as I can't rest my weight properly on the right. I could sit in the Roadhouse, your very own pet Winchester." Dean pushed the blanket off to expose the full length of his body, his only sleepwear a raggedy pair of boxers.

He watched Jo's eyes involuntarily drift down his body and saw the tip of the gun quiver slightly, "You can be a real fucking ass sometimes, you know? Did it occur to you that most of us have to do stuff we don't particularly want to do? You've managed to cruise around being just Dean Winchester for a while now. It's about time you got a dose of reality."

Dean almost choked on his own disbelief, "Dose of reality? I had a fucking stroke which means I have to concentrate to speak, the right side of my body doesn't work properly and every now and then I turn into Dean the twitchy squirrel. My baby brother is the First Lieutenant for the demonic killing force. I've had reality up to here," Dean held his hand up to his forehead, "I just want to finish this."

"I get that, honest to damn I do," Jo said, gesturing with her hand like she'd forgotten the gun was there, "But there's right and wrong ways to finish this. You dying is a wrong way."

"Even if it accomplishes the job?"

"Especially!" Jo said, stomping her foot on the ground, "I imagine what the demon wants most at the moment is the last Winchester in its way out of the way. His First Lieutenant is replaceable, you aren't. For all we know if he dies, the demon will just pop one of his buddies into the shell and we're in exactly the same shit as before."

"That's my brother you are talking about," Dean glared.

"No, it ain't," Jo argued, "Your brother died when you did, maybe a bit after. It's just the First Lieutenant left and don't pretend you know how he'll react 'cos you don't. Proof number one should be the fact he's willing to kill you."

"Obviously you never saw Sam in what we like to call 'The Teenage years.'" The joke felt flat on Dean's tongue.

Jo slipped the gun into the back of her jeans and then slunk over to sit on the edge of Dean's bed, "Do you want to die?"

"What kind of question is that?" Dean asked, edging back away from Jo.

"A good one," Jo said pointedly, "You aren't showing a huge effort to stay alive."

"There's a difference between staying alive and living," Dean pointed out.

"And you are only doing the former?"

"How can I do the latter when my brother isn't?"

"Easily," Jo said and leaned forward, pressing her lips against Dean's.

Dean leaned in for a moment and enjoyed the sensation of just being a man kissing a woman but reality filtered into his mind and he drew back, "Jo…"

"Let me guess," Jo said, "This isn't the right time? It's not you, it's me? One day when this is all over.." Jo leaned in determinedly, cupping her hands around the back of Dean's hand to pull him into her, "Maybe I got tired of waiting."

Jo tasted like desperation with a sweet aftertaste of hope. Dean knew he should draw back but he'd been drawing back for almost a year now and the tension in the rope was too tight, his anchor gave and he rebounded into Jo, mashing her lips with his, fingers drifted to the hem of her t-shirt and was just about to lift when the image of Esme flashed into mind and it's like someone just dumped a bucket of cold water on him.

Jo may be determined but she wasn't stupid. When Dean stopped dead, she lifted her hand up to his chin, gentler than her earlier frantic efforts would dictate, "It's not your fault," She said softly and followed up her words with a kiss on his jaw, "It's not your fault," she repeated, peppering her way towards his mouth when she captured his lips once more. Dean didn't believe her but he'd let her believe for the both of them.

No more words were needed as clothes were strewn away, no awareness of who undressed who, just a universal constant, a singular entity of need. It wasn't perfect, far from it. It'd been a long time for both of them and there was clumsiness, heads colliding, feet tangling in the sheets and tumbles off the bed. There's laughter and blushes then hitched breathes and low exultant murmurs of each other names as prayers to a deity neither believed in. Finally, in the spaces between heartbeats, there was peace.

As Jo nuzzled into him, sleep descending and making her languid, he caught her last muzzy words, "I really hope Sam didn't see that."

Dean chuckled despite himself.

* * *

Dean looked down at Jo's sleeping form, sprawled half over him, limbs tangled with his as if that could stop him from leaving. Obviously she'd forgotten Dean had grown up sharing a bed with Sam the spider monkey. Sam had been prone to nightmares long before his visions had started and Dean had often woken up in the middle of the night and found a Sam wound around him, small fists anchored in Dean's t-shirt. Dean had, as a necessity, become an expert as unwinding little brothers from himself without waking them up. There had been one time when Sam had been gripping him so tight that Dean had ended up getting up, going to the bathroom and returning to bed, all the while with a dozing brother dangling off him. 

He quickly assessed the situation and decided he'd need to give Jo a lesson in spatial awareness when he got back as long as she didn't kill him. She had the sides fairly literally covered but she'd ignored up and down apart from one leg hooked into his which would be easy to shift. Many people thought that slow, gradual movements were the best idea when you were trying to sneak out of bed. Many people were wrong. Slow and gradual speaks of deliberation and suspicion. The way to do it was with movements that could be disguised as the normal motions of sleep, it was jerks and twists and wriggles.

One twist dislodged Jo's hand from his shoulder making it less likely she'd catch his shifts downwards and then a backward arch freed him up more room from the caged circle of her arms. He had to be careful as he wriggled downwards, too fast and she might mistake it for a seizure which would likely lurch her awake. Too slow and the sleep driven arms might try to grip again. It only took about ten minutes for Dean to extract himself from Jo and off the bed.

He padded over to the clothes he'd 'accidentally' thrown clear of the bed earlier and pulled on his jeans. He tugged on a clean t-shirt and then grabbed his boots and the duffel he'd had prepped the night before and slunk out of the door. The room next door was empty so Dean slipped in there to continue his departure preparations, sliding off the jeans again to get on a clean pair of boxers, pulling on his least hole speckled socks and boots.

He made sure to greet each person he passed as normal. There was no better way to draw attention to yourself than to try not to draw attention to yourself, especially when you were someone with as large a reputation as Dean. He stopped in the roadhouse for a leisurely cup of coffee, betting on Jo sleeping for an hour or so at the least. He caught up on gossip, idly dropping into conversation that he was going to head out on patrol for a bit then headed out to the Impala.

He chatted to the guard on duty. He'd timed it well so that the guard was just coming to the end of his shift. It was likely his departure would be lost amongst the shuffle, noted on paper but not noted in either of the guards' minds. He kept the Impala's engine muffled, knowing its distinctive purr could give him away. Common sense dictated he shouldn't take the Impala but then common sense had told him to leave the Impala behind several times, he hadn't listened to it back then and he wasn't about to start now.

He didn't pick up speed until he was well clear of the White Spot. The car felt empty without a passenger. He usually had Jo or Marco with him, sometimes even Bobby. This was something he had to do on his own but he still found himself addressing the person that wasn't there, unsure if he was trying to talk to Jo or Marco or Sam.

He had to pull over twice on the way just to get a brief shut-eye to keep his focus. He was sure Jo would have figured out he'd gone by now and he wouldn't put it past her to send squads out in every direction to pull him back. His one advantage was that he was fairly sure she had no idea exactly where he was headed. He felt momentary sympathy for those that'd be facing Jo's wrath right about now for letting him out.

The sign showing ten miles to Lawrence, Kansas and Dean gunned the engine, speeding towards destiny.

* * *

Before Dean had even switched off the Impala's engine, he knew his brother was already there. It was like a long ache that he'd forgotten about had just vanished, leaving him relieved but unsure why. He stepped warily out of the car and looked up at the old house. It stood abandoned like the rest of Lawrence. People had fled from places known for Supernatural weirdness early on. 

He didn't have to wait long. Sam stepped out of the shadow of the old tree, looking for all the world like the boy Dean had grown up with. He smiled boyishly at the sight of his brother, "Dean, I knew you'd come."

"Sam," Dean nodded his head in acknowledgment, "You know why I'm here."

Sam frowned, "It doesn't have to be like that, Dean. You don't understand yet but I can explain it all to you like he explained it to me. It all makes sense, I swear it does. Mom and Dad and Jess, they had to die."

"Nobody had to die, Sam." Dean kept his voice cold and level, trying to pretend it was just any other monster in front of him instead of his baby brother, the brother he'd sworn to look out for, "No-one else has to die."

"Dean," Sam said in the tone he used to use when Dean had said something particularly stupid, "Everybody dies sooner or later. Isn't it better for their death to mean something?"

"I think your judgment of 'meaning something' isn't particularly sound at the moment." Dean felt cracks appearing in his façade already, the honest hope in his brother's tone tearing into his heart.

Sam pouted, "Won't you let me explain it?"

Dean shook his head, "There's no way to explain all this, Sam. Just come with me, I'll make it alright somehow. I'll find a way to get you back to yourself."

"I am back," Sam stated and Dean felt the earth tremor beneath his feet, forcing him to take a back step away from his brother. A hurt look flashed across Sam's face, "Dean, I'd never hurt you, you know that."

"You shot me and tried to shoot me again!" Dean exclaimed.

"I was trying to help," Sam replied, "I thought you were bitten and I knew you wouldn't want to live like that. I was trying to help you." Sam stepped forward, holding out his hands to show the lack of weapons in contrast to the loaded gun clenched in Dean's hands, "You came back wrong, Dean. You know that as well as I do. I just want to put things right again."

Despite the fact he had a weapon and his brother didn't, Dean still found himself wanting to back away. Three images clashed in front of him: The little brother he had sworn to protect, the dangerous man he had become and the monster that Dean couldn't allow to continue. The fucked up trilogy of a Winchester. "Stay back, Sam."

Sam stopped, lowering his hands to his side and tucked them into the pockets of his baggy jeans, "You believe what they say over me? You won't even let me explain?"

"Sam, you can't explain this." Dean could feel the tears brimming in his eyes as he faced his brother's earnest expression, "Just let me help you. Please. We can find a place, one of the unoccupied White Spots and we can work on this."

Sam smiled a sad little smile at his brother, "I don't need help, Dean. I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I'm great. God, Dean, I was so worried for so long about what I'd become and now I know and it's just a relief. I am who I'm meant to be."

"You are meant to be my little brother," Dean's voice cracked and a treacherous tear escaped to roll down his cheek. Dean didn't dare shift his grip from the gun levelled at Sam to wipe it away.

"And I still am. Always. Always be your little brother." Sam's soothing tone seemed so wrong, "Sam and Dean Winchester. We can be together again, the demon told me what to do. It's so easy, Dean."

"Sammy, you know I can't let you do this." Dean stared into his brother's eyes, blinking before any more tears could form and blur.

"I know," Sam said sadly and faster than Dean's eyes could track, he pulled a gun from tucked into his back and brought it around to point at his brother's forehead, "I don't want to do this, Dean."

Dean kept his own gun steady at his brother's head and desperately wracked his brain for any strategy he hadn't tried, anything that could bring his brother back from the abyss. The scent of wet dog hair drifted to his nose and panic flooded his brain, not least because there were no wet dogs around. All his plans turned to dust and smoke when the first tremor ran through his extended arm. Dean internally cursed, surely he hadn't been stupid enough to forget his meds but as his mind replayed the tangled mess of this morning, the memory of the unopened bottle of pills at his bedside mocked him.

Dean tried to still his hand and steel his mind, tried to force himself to pull the trigger on his baby brother while he could.

He ran out of time.

The gun tumbled from shaking fingers, hitting the ground only moments before Dean himself. Dean felt his body helplessly convulse, his back arcing upwards and then thumping painfully into the damn ground. He wasn't alone for long, trapping in the husk that refused to obey him. He could feel Sam's large hands brushing away as the tears that had dribbled out of his eyes, wide eyes that could see his brother's face above him, long strands of dark hair falling over dark eyes.

"It's alright, Dean. It's alright," His brother's voice tried to soothe away the nightmare he'd become, hands smoothing his hair back and gently wiping a smear of dirt off his face until they trailed down to gently cup his chin and then close around his throat.

The absence of air took a while to hit Dean. He had no control over his body so it seemed just about par for the course that he'd have no control of his lungs either. It didn't really hurt, just felt awkward until his lungs continued heaving to try and pull the denied oxygen into themselves then it began to hurt, a bizarre lassitude of pain that settled over every part of him.

The pressure on his throat increased, long fingers squeezing tighter, making sure nothing got through. Dean's body began to shake faster, the seizure fighting against the body's natural instinct to survive, his brain screaming at his arms to do something, to restore oxygen rather than just flailing uselessly on the packed dirt.

The pressure silenced his brain, silenced his vision until black spots danced across, obscuring the last sight of his brother's face above him. The darkness closed in on sight, body, mind and Dean was just so tired that he succumbed with no last grand thoughts, no choked out epithet, just a quiet, relieved mental 'Oh' and then everything that constituted Dean Winchester was gone.

Sam sunk down beside his brother's body, pulling Dean's head into his lap and stroking back his soft hair, ignoring the chill that was already paling and pebbling his brother's skin, "It's alright now, Dean. Shush. I'm going to make everything alright and when I do, I'll bring you back." He carefully removed Dean's silver ring from his finger and then the amulet from around his neck, tucking the two trophies into his pocket to keep them safe.

Sam had dug a hole underneath the old tree before Dean had even arrived, knowing there'd only be one resolution to the Winchester brothers meeting once more. He frowned at the mar of bruises that rung his brother's throat and pressed his lips gently against the purpled skin, a parting kiss. He could contact Emma who'd make his brother look good as new once more but this was a moment for him and Dean alone.

The hole was good and deep, nestled beneath the gnarled roots of the tree where it could protect him. Sam lifted his brother as easily as if he weighed nothing and stepped down into the hole. The dirt was rich and warm as he set his brother gently down, closing the eyes which still seemed too big and too startled, "It's alright, Dean." Sam whispered soothing words, "Let me take care of you for a while. Next time you'll be perfect again."

Sam hauled himself out with some reluctance, missing the warming presence of Dean already. "I'll take good care of the Impala for you, keep her running smooth as anything." He promised as he tossed in the first handful of dirt, "I'll take care of everything. Just you sleep for now." It didn't take Sam that long to fill in the hole but he took his time smoothing and levelling the ground, shifting the grass so that the patch of ground that hid his brother's bed was indistinguishable from anything else.

Finally when Sam was satisfied with a job well done, he turned away from his childhood home and walked down to the waiting car. He eased himself into the driver's seat and smiled, patting the steering wheel, the rebellion's symbol of hope now in demonic hands, "Don't you worry, girl, just a while to wait and I'll bring Dean home."

**The End**


End file.
